Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth
by Moiraine Lendreth
Summary: Can an overthrown queen and a blacksmith apprentice mend together a kingdom riven by civil war and torn by a ruthless king?
1. The Weight of a Crown

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

Summary: Can an overthrown queen and a blacksmith apprentice mend together a kingdom riven by civil war and torn by a ruthless king?

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names, places, and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are owned by the author of this story._

_Author's Notes: Originally written for a fanfiction site that housed only HP fics (and written under the same pseudonym), I have decided to post it here, at ffnet, simply because it is easier for me to archive all my stories in one place. Funnily enough, this story DOES NOT contain slash, and can be properly classified into the Adventure/AU genre. _

**1**

**The Weight of a Crown**

She was furious, that much was obvious. Anyone in her shoes would have been, being summoned like a common petitioner—_a peasant!_—when she deserved more than just that. She deserved much more.

By the Grace of the Light, Ginevra Molly Weasley ter' Malfoy, Queen of Atalanta, Bearer of the Crown of Truth, Head of the Weasley House, deserved to be treated with the respect that came with her title. But here she was, half – running with sweat trickling down her back, answering the summons of the king. And it grated that she actually _ran_ to answer the summons. Ran! Only her reined anger and her stubborn pride kept her from stopping and wiping the sweat from her forehead with her bare hands. So he thought he could make her obey his every word, did he? The Queen of Atalanta scowled, barely suppressing a growl in her throat.

The handmaiden of the Queen, hard put in keeping up with her lady's quick pace, almost winced at the sound coming from her Majesty. Hermione Granger was used to the Queen's famous temper that was fiery at best, explosive at worst. Sometimes, "explosive" did not even cover it; but she saw the queen this angry only once, and Hermione shivered at the thought. A good thing Queen Ginevra was not holding a sword right then, or she would have thought the formidable woman was going into battle like some of the famed queens of legend.

Be that as it may, the queen still looked as regal and as beautiful as Hermione imagined queens of legend supposed to have looked. She did not think it was the Crown of Truth, nestled in the queen's long red curls that gave her the aura of power. Nor was it the impressive gown of cream colored silk slashed with green at the sleeves and hem, the narrow waist and front embroidered with thread-of-gold flowers and studded with pearls, intricate lace spilling from her wrists and covering her neck. It was just her; the queen's presence in a room made you feel like you were staring at a mountain too high and too large for you not to notice. Hermione had seen ladies of noble birth consciously arrange skirts and hair when the queen passed by, and shot her a withering look when they were sure she did not notice. Jealousy, in Hermione's opinion, and she told the queen so, but Queen Ginevra only laughed, saying that ladies who were jealous of her ought to be throttled by their necks for them to see sense. Hermione could not understand that, until now, but it did not matter.

What mattered was that the queen was angry, and no good ever came from angering the queen. Hermione moaned inside, praying that whatever happened, she was not going to end up in prison, or worse, on the headsman's block. Things like that usually happened to handmaidens of legendary queens. And if Queen Ginevra did not match them in beauty, or in their extraordinary deeds, she was sure to be called legendary because of her temper alone. Hermione quickly added a prayer that the queen would not let her cutting tongue lash out, too.

As they rounded a corner, the queen stopped so suddenly Hermione squeaked when she almost ran into her, and heaved a loud sigh when she stopped a foot away, hands thrust forward at air. She automatically arranged the train of the queen's dress and stood five steps behind her, eyes downcast, trying to calm her rapid breathing from their long, 'brisk' walk all the way form the queen's quarters.

A rustling sound in front of her told Hermione the queen was preparing herself, taking deep breaths. Before she could risk a peek upwards, the sound of the queen's voice made Hermione jump.

"Announce me, Hermione," she said, her voice smooth and cool as ice. "They will know how to respect the Queen of Atalanta even if it means shoving the title down their throats." Hermione saw the queen's face, smooth and composed, her chin slightly raised, and only those who knew where to look could truly say she was angry. Her eyes were like twin furnaces of blue fire. She did not need to be told again, not when her Majesty was in a temper, and she bobbed a quick curtsy before she approached the trumpeter not too far from them, his head almost touching the ground with his elegant bow. From the nervous looks he darted towards the queen, Hermione was sure he knew it was best not to let the queen wait further. He nodded once, pulled a length of velvet cord in the corner, and the great double oak doors covered in gilt swung open slowly.

Hermione hurriedly took her place behind the queen with her head bowed as the sound of trumpets washed over the slowly increasing murmurs of voices and the swish of silk inside the Grand Hall. Even from her position Hermione could see lesser nobles—those nearest the door—started to bow when they realized who was coming.

As the trumpets faded, the voice of the announcer was loud and clear; unusual for such a stick of a man. "She comes! She comes! The Crown of Truth, Queen of Atalanta, Ginevra Molly Weasley ter' Malfoy comes to the Grand Hall!" He bowed once and backed away, giving way for the queen. Hermione could not help but catch her breath.

As the queen crossed the threshold, the Grand Hall that looked full of nobles swiftly backed away, creating a large space of carpeted floor that led straight to steps leading to the two thrones at the far end of the room raised above the heads of the nobles for everyone to see. Even though she had been employed in the palace for almost seven years now, the sight of the Grand Hall always took Hermione's breath away.

The room was well named, in her opinion. Gilt framed ceiling rose almost twenty feet above their heads adorned with intricate frescoes of an azure sky and great white birds none knew the name of, supported by six marble pillars on both sides, and the walls of polished white stone shone brightly under the hundreds of candles that hung from two great crystal chandeliers. The floor was of polished stone, too, although the middle was carpeted in the softest red velvet. That was where the queen was standing now, at the door-end of the Grand Hall, looking as if she intended to walk straight as an arrow through the raised platform and through the wall, as well, and expected the wall and throne to give way. But from the way her eyes blazed and her chin was raised, she seemed ready to walk through two walls, the throne, _and_ the king himself. Hermione stifled a chuckle under her breath, and managed to look like she was just stifling a mild cough. The latter thought was typical of the queen; she had never let the king gain enough ground to bend her to his will, but enough to show that she was a dutiful wife as well as queen. In front of the nobles, at least. Vaguely she wondered what the queen was going to do, after being summoned here. If the torn bits of parchment that remained of the summons were any indication, the king would be lucky to be left sitting on his throne with his limbs intact when the queen was through with him.

Ginevra kept her hands on her skirts to keep them from shaking with anger. The moment the doors into the Grand Hall were opened, she knew something was wrong.

The Grand Hall was never this full before, not on an ordinary day like this. She stopped counting heads when she reached one hundred. It seemed her husband had called every man and woman who had titles even to a small estate here. And all of them were eyeing her warily, avoiding her gaze. That was normal; she was used to people wavering in her gaze, but today… Lady Lavender Brown, a strong supporter of her father, averted her gaze, licking her lips nervously. Odd. As she let her gaze roam the Hall, those she acknowledged her friends and supporters of her family avoided her gaze. Some of them wore sickly expressions on their faces that lacy fans and silk scarves could not hide. Something was definitely not right, and she intended to wring it out of her husband the moment she could lay her hands on his neck. The very thought made her itch to run all the way across the room, and hang dignity and title altogether!

Gracefully, with all the dignity and pomp of a queen her rank and power, Ginevra crossed the length of the Great Hall with her head held high. She was not sweating anymore—thank goodness she had not forgotten to tuck a handkerchief inside her sleeve—and she was sure her hair was properly arranged, thanks to Hermione's able hand, bless the young woman. If she wanted to make the king remember she was crowned queen of this bloody kingdom, she had to use all the advantage she could have.

The Crown of Truth on her head seemed to weigh heavier now than ever. It was made of thin gold and silver wire entwined with diamonds and pearls, and tiny swords made of beaten gold with the blade turned downward showing above her temples. The Crown of Truth symbolized the Atalantean Queen's highest duty: to uphold truth, and to be a beacon of light to illuminate it even in the darkest of times. Lady Justice's right hand, so to speak. A heavy burden to be shouldered by any woman, but previous queens had proven their worth by carrying that burden on silk-draped shoulders without sweating a drop. Ginevra intended to do the same.

Custom dictated that when the King held court while the Queen arrived, she had to speak the ancient formula and bow at the foot of the dais. Eyes flashing, Ginevra stood stiffly at the bottom step of the dais, looking up at the king seated on his golden throne engraved with eagles and hunters along the legs and arms. Her voice could have been frosty enough to make winter seem warm.

"The king wishes to speak with his queen. Here I am." Murmurs rose among the nobles, clearly noting the fact that she had no intention to bow to the king. Let them loose their heads over it, Ginevra decided, wishing she could snort. But queens did not snort. In public. Instead she gave a light laugh, her voice sweet as honey. "I would have sent a letter to say I would come in the afternoon, but I was doing nothing but talk and embroider with Hermione, so I decided to come now." There, just enough volume to carry through for twenty paces, and light enough to show she was not ruffled. Looking up with the most innocent smile she could muster, Ginevra studied the king's reaction.

With the Crown of Honor on his head and the silver-mounted black scabbard and blade at his hip, Draco Malfoy certainly looked like the king of Atalanta, although his presence carried just as much weight as Ginevra's. He was a dangerous man. Very dangerous. Dark gray eyes reminded Ginevra of cold steel, his smooth and handsome face wore a knowing smile, and he looked down at Ginevra as if he was amused by the games of a child. The thought made Ginevra wonder how she could have survived being married to him for three years. And it made her anger seethe.

Not once, noble women gazed admiringly at King Draco; he was after all—Ginevra admitted grudgingly—very handsome. With platinum blonde hair that was naturally held back in soft waves and barely touching the sides of his neck, he made women's hearts flutter and men look like thugs, even though they were dressed in fine silks. Ginevra knew that to assume Draco was only good for his looks would be hanging yourself by a noose; his face hid a deft and cunning mind, and a hunger for power that made her blood run cold. Not for the last time she considered relinquishing her throne and let those simpering cows who call themselves "ladies" squabble over who gets the crown first, and not for the last time she stamped the idea down. No matter what, she would not leave her people in the hands of a cold-blooded tyrant. And her family; they would not be safe anymore if she just—

"Ah, queen wife, I am glad you came as soon as you are able," Draco smiled even wider. He made the words "queen wife" sound like "servant". He stood up and gave her a bow that seemed almost a nod, and went down a few steps just short of a head above Ginevra, so he was still looking down on her. He held out his hand. "I was just about to announce something very important."

Ginevra did not hesitate to take his hand and smile back. Coolly. "It seems you mean to say something more than just an announcement, husband." She placed as much space between them as their joined hands would allow, Draco leading her, so that it seemed like he was a servant escorting the queen to her throne. Draco did not seem to notice it, however, and the smug smile on his face never wavered an inch. The dark green silk coat he wore was impeccable, trimmed in silver leaves and vines at the cuff and collar, a large gold banded ring mounted with a large emerald on his left finger, engraved with his house insignia, a serpent entwined around a dagger with the point down. Like Ginevra, he was Head of his House.

As she settled down on her throne—this one silver, engraved with flowers and trees all over the arms and legs—Hermione dutifully came to her side, arranging her skirts, which left her free to study the faces staring up at them. Mentally she made a list of Houses that supported her on the throne, and another list that supported Draco. To her irritation, the former list was comparably shorter than the latter. House Weasley was one of the three most powerful bloodlines in the kingdom, one of the three that had the right to the thrones upon one of which she now sat. One was House Malfoy; the other was all but erased from memory now, since the tragic incident almost twenty years past. As expected, when one House crumbles, other smaller Houses would come gobbling up what remained to become powerful themselves, but not as powerful as Weasley or Malfoy. Still, if they got over their minor squabbles and worked together, they would have to be considered very carefully…

The crown felt heavier today, Ginevra decided, and it was not just because of her imagination. She could feel the three years of struggle that had passed, of trying to overcome the power that Draco had suddenly possessed over the other nobles, and Ginevra knew she was feeling the strain. Her arranged marriage with Draco was entirely political of course, and imperative; her neck would have hanged from the gallows three years ago, along with the necks of all her family, if she had not agreed to marry Draco. The thought still galled her, even after all this time. But there had been no choice; even if she stubbornly refused to wed Draco he would find a way to force her, and veiled threats about her family had done it. Damn the man! She gripped her hands more tightly in her lap, but nothing showed in her face. What the bloody hell was he up to now?

Raising a hand casually for silence, Draco waited until the murmurs in the Grand Hall subdued before he spoke. "My fellow Atalanteans," he began gravely, his face suddenly solemn, "I have found, to my great shock and disappointment, a group of rebels set to destroy our hard-earned peace." Gasps of shock from the nobles. Ginevra barely kept her eyebrow from raising. Rebels? Now why would anyone in Atalanta rebel against the kingdom—

Draco nodded slowly, as if to share in their disappointment, but Ginevra was not buying any of it. "Yes, I understand; quite distressing. But what distresses me more, is that one of those captured rebels is someone I know very dearly." He gave Ginevra a pitying look. "He is even dearer to my queen wife."

Ginevra could not help but look confounded. She tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows slightly before she could think. "Husband, what—"

Draco snapped his fingers, and a large man in dented mail and armor emerged from behind the king's throne, his helmet carried casually in one arm, the three white plumes of the Sword-General hanging limply from the top. Draco's man through and through, Ginevra had not personally liked Gregory Goyle, nor did she like him better when her husband appointed him the general of Atalanta's army. To Ginevra, the man was as stupid as he was big, and Gregory Goyle was _huge_.

"Your Highness," he bowed low, the white plumes on his helmet almost touching the floor. "We captured the rebels during a secret meeting last night. All of them pointed to one man as their leader." He gestured to two soldiers standing below, behind the king's throne, and a few moments later they were dragging someone along between them, a dirty sack covering his head. More murmurs from the nobles, and Ginevra saw one or two ladies faint on the spot.

The captive had his head hanging limply, bobbing this way and that as the two soldiers dragged and pulled him up the dais, stopping only two steps from the top. Clearly the man had not been treated kindly; dirt clung to his once-fine cloak of fine dark blue wool, and several ivory buttons were missing. There was also a tear on the left sleeve, and his boots were gone, leaving the man barefoot. Ginevra could see scratches on the soles of the man's feet. When they pulled off the sack, she wanted to faint, too.

She did not notice she had stood up until she was already holding up the man herself, shock written all over her face. "Father?" she asked faintly, then recovered herself by repeating her question. "What…what have they done to you?"

"G…Ginny?" Her father's voice came out a faint croak. This close, she could see his lips were cracked and dry, and there was thin line of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. He looked up in agonizing slowness, his eyes trying to focus. His left eye was swollen, and his hair was disheveled. Ginevra's eyes spun around to her husband's.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. Now she knew why there were so many nobles at court today. "My father is not a traitor to the kingdom, and he is certainly not a rebel to be treated like this!"

Draco sighed, shaking his head in a gesture of pity and helplessness, yet Ginevra saw the faint smile of satisfaction on his face before it faded like mist on sunlight. "Queen wife," he began, "you must understand. He was found last night by Atalantean guards in a secret meeting, plotting to attack the castle." He looked at her with a flat expression. "You know the punishment for treason, Ginny."

Ginevra bristled. "Never call me by that name," she said coldly, standing straight. "Release my father." She glared daggers at the soldiers standing beside her father. When they did not move, she snapped. "Release him, you fools! Or do you dare disobey me?" Her voice thundered across the Hall, and the soldiers leapt to obey, mumbling apologies as they hurriedly cut the ropes that bound her father. Arthur Weasley crumpled on the dais, too weak to stand, but Ginevra held herself from rushing to his side. She could tend to her father later; now, she had to be queen.

"You go too far, Draco," she said, eyes flashing. They agreed…_he_ agreed, damnit! Her family should have been safe, they should have been—

"No, queen wife," Draco replied, and this time his cold stare was directed at her, and she shivered from fear. "I did what was necessary. But you…" his voice trailed off, and his face changed into a sad, forlorn expression, although his eyes never changed. "How could you? You have betrayed the kingdom and contrived a plan to rebel against me? Why?" He stepped towards her and took her hands in his, kissing them softly.

Ginevra's face paled, and she tried to pull her hands away. Draco's grip was like iron. She could see him smile against her hands, but when he looked up again, he looked almost pitiful. It was amazing how he could pull it off without a sweat. "Wh…what are you talking about?" she asked, her voice wavering. She knew what he was planning, what he was already _doing_, but she could not think of anything else to say. Ideas quickly filled her head, but she cast them aside. She could not leave her father here, nor could she let the kingdom be ruled by a lying snake. She cannot run! She was the queen! That last thought gave her an ounce of courage. It was small compared to the rising panic inside her stomach, but she held onto it tightly.

"General Goyle," Draco said, his voice not quite hard, but his eyes shining with malice, "tell them what you found last night."

General Goyle bowed low, and produced a crumpled note from inside his helmet. Even at that distance Ginevra could see her seal waxed at the bottom, and what she only considered a nightmare started to engulf her like quicksand as the large man read the letter that was written in a hand quite similar to her own.

"Father, I have considered your invitation, and I am now accepting it. I will supply the rebel forces with everything they need: money, food, and weapons, and above all information. Wait for my next letter; there I will tell you the best moment to strike. Burn this letter afterwards, and keep yourself safe. Always, Ginny." The General folded the letter and tucked it back under his helmet. He gave Ginevra a cold smile of satisfaction before wiping his face of any emotion, staring straight ahead.

The ground seemed to sway, and Ginny gripped Draco's hand for support. She stared at his eyes for a long time, wondering how her own husband could destroy her like this.

"Why…?" her voice was a mere whisper now; her entire body felt cold and weak, and it was all she could do not to faint. "Why did you do this?"

Draco lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Because I can."#

_More notes: Authors love feedback. Really._


	2. Forging a Blade

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names, places, and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are owned by the author of this story._

**2**

**Forging a Blade**

The sharp, metallic clang of iron against iron reverberated along the thin wooden walls, almost following the beat of Harry's heart as he molded the thin, long lump of metal into shape with slow, heavy strokes. His muscles were aching for rest; he had been working since the crack of dawn, forging a sword he meant to give as a birthday gift for a friend.

Re-heating the blade, Harry watched carefully as the metal slowly glowed from a deep orange into an almost brilliant white. When the metal was hot enough he began hammering it into shape again, counting the strokes and controlling the strength with which he tempered the blade. In his concentration he had not noticed a tall and thin man with ancient white hair step into the doorway of the smithy.

"Ah, Harry, I see your enthusiasm for crafting metals has made you skip your lunch. Again."

Harry looked up from his work, wiping the sweat that was running down his brow, making his dark hair stick to his skin. He gave the old man a grin. "Sorry, Albus. I always forget to eat when I work."

The old blacksmith sighed. "It seems that you do, my boy." He walked over to the small wooden table where a cloth-covered plate was placed beside a jug of water. He took off the cloth and sighed again under his beard, white hair billowing from his breath. "You cannot expect to finish that wonderful sword of yours if you do not have the strength to carry the hammer."

Harry gave him an apologetic smile, dipping the iron ore into a vat of brine. Steam hissed in profusion as Harry set down the hammer and tongs, wiping his hands on a rag nearby. "I'm already finished for today. Why don't we eat this together?"

The old blacksmith gave a snort. Harry had been under his wing all his life, but he had started his apprenticeship only three years ago, when Albus had decided he was strong enough to wield the lighter tools of a blacksmith. "Harry, I wish for you to eat, and that does not include me depriving you of your rightful share in your meals."

Harry laughed. Eyeing the blacksmith out of the corner of his eye, he said, "It looks to me you haven't been eating properly yourself." Master Albus was tall and thin, his movements spry and quick for a man his age. He also had long and shockingly white hair and beard that went past his waist; when he was working at the forge, he would tuck his beard under his belt.

Albus sat on the opposite chair, giving Harry a narrow look. "So the apprentice knows more than his teacher, now, does he? Then I guess I could leave you to shoe the horses at the Croaking Frog?"

"What! But that would take me a whole week!"

The old blacksmith's eyes twinkled. "It would do you a lot of good to visit Ellis, now that spring is here. And I know for a fact, Harry, that you have not been anywhere but the house and the smithy for the entire winter."

"But Master Albus—"

"Do not fret, my young apprentice," Albus cut him off with a gesture. "In return, I will help you finish the sword for the innkeeper's son Neville. If I remember correctly, his birthday is in a fortnight from today, just the same as yours."

Harry was surprised. More with the fact that his teacher offered to finish the sword than with the fact that he remembered his birthday. Albus Dumbledore was picky with his customers; his skills with the hammer and forge was unmatched by any Harry had seen so far, but he refused to work for reasons Harry could not quite understand. The old blacksmith was always more than willing to do jobs for the people in the nearby town of Ellis, or even for a complete stranger, but sometimes he would refuse, even though they offered a hefty price. When he asked, all the old man ever did was snort and say that Harry was too young to understand.

"Not to worry, Harry; I will make the blade sharp, and the handle hefty," Albus continued, stroking his beard in thought. "A sword fit for a king."

Harry smiled. "I don't doubt you can do it, Master Albus."

The old man chuckled. "Of course you don't, boy. I was the one who taught you the trade, after all."

After eating, Harry took away the plates and the empty jug of water. Albus watched him leave out the door and walk the path back to the house. When he was out of view, Albus sighed again and stood up. He walked over to the blade Harry had just finished. He smiled in satisfaction as he tested its balance, weighing it deftly in one hand. It only needed enough sharpening before it could be fitted into its handle.

Settling the blade down, he took out a long, thin length of polished wood as long as his forearm. He flicked it once and touched the newly-forged blade. The metal glowed with a soft red hue before fading.

Albus nodded again, stowing the wand back into his pocket. "There, now it _is_ fit for a king." He hummed a merry tune as he stepped out the door, inhaling the fresh air.

o0o0o0o

At the crack of dawn Harry was already up. After washing his face and putting on his clothes, he started putting things into his traveling pack. Ellis would be a half-days' journey by foot. He wrapped half a loaf of bread, cheese, and a few apples in a cloth before placing it inside his pack, along with a small bag of money, a change of clothes, and the smaller tools he'd need for shoeing the horses at the Croaking Frog inn. The actual horseshoes were put in a separate bag.

When he was satisfied, Harry began to cook breakfast. He had been fishing out the sausages from the pan when the blacksmith came in.

"Excellent, Harry. My stomach has been annoying me ever since I woke up." He sat down at the small wooden table they shared between themselves.

Harry put down the sausages and glanced at Albus. "You were working at the forge?"

The old man nodded. "I wanted to have a head start with Neville's sword." He took a bite out of one sausage before continuing. "And I have nothing else to do today; I already finished mending those pots Mistress Branstone brought."

Harry smiled. Albus always mended things for Mistress Branstone free of charge because she always gave them freshly-baked pies and breads whenever she visited. She owned the bakery down at Ellis.

"And why are you up so soon?"

Harry shrugged. "I wanted to have a head start with my work, too. I'm going to Ellis today to shoe those horses."

"Ah." Albus noted Harry's pack leaning against the wall. "And how long will you stay there?"

"I'll be back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! But I heard the Spring Fair will be held all week in Ellis; Mayor Fudge told me a few days ago. Don't you want to go there?"

Harry shrugged again. "I don't have any money, and fairs hold no interest for me."

The old man sighed. "If that is what you want; but just in case you change your mind, buy something for yourself—for your birthday," he explained, when Harry gave a questioning look. "And do not worry about the money. I will pay you the amount of whatever it is you will buy. Think of it as a gift."

Harry was surprised. "But you do not have to do that, Master Albus!"

Albus waved it off with one hand. "Nonsense, Harry; you deserve something special for your birthday. You will turn seventeen then, will you not?" Harry nodded. "Ah, so you see: the occasion marks your turning into manhood. A gift is only proper."

Harry shook his head. "I don't think I need any sort of gift; I have everything I need right here."

Albus smiled, his eyes twinkling. "You'll never know, my boy: unexpected things happen when you least think they will."#


	3. The Croaking Frog

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are the intellectual property of the authoress._

**3**

**The Croaking Frog**

The sun was almost touching the horizon when Harry had his first unhampered view of Ellis. His journey had been uneventful for the most part; passing only fields and patches of forest and thawing snow, Harry had little trouble going to the town on foot, except for the muddy sections of the road where snow had only been a few weeks ago.

Thinking of the hot meal and soft bed he would be having at the inn, Harry urged his feet to walk faster. Even though spring had already taken hold, walking in frigid temperatures was not something he was looking forward to.

As he passed the first few houses at the edge of town, Harry looked around. Ellis had not changed since the last time he had visited it with Master Albus during the previous year. Most of the houses were made of wood and roofed with thatch. Few buildings had three floors; most residents of Ellis were farmers and weavers, and their main concern was their crops. This was mostly the reason why Ellis remained quite small. A large area of land surrounding the town had been tilled and sown for planting, while most houses had a barn or at least a pen where they kept their animals. The only exception was Master Albus's own house, built quite a distance from the town, near the edge of the forest that separated Atalanta and the Emerald Sea to the south.

Looking to the east, the Black Lake shimmered slightly in the fading light. Townsfolk had named the lake because of its deep, dark waters like hard, black glass. Harry had no memory of anyone ever crossing the vast lake, even though it was the shortest route from Ellis to C'Girod Valley on the northern edge of the water.

Turning his eyes back to the town, Harry's exhaustion seem to lift when he saw the sign of the Croaking Frog inn: a squat green frog painted on a hung wooden sign with its mouth open. Shaking the dust off his travel-worn boots, Harry quickly made his way inside.

As he expected, the inn's first floor was already starting to fill with patrons; most of the round, wooden tables had customers holding pewter mugs of ale or eating a bowl of stew. The scent of the food made Harry's mouth water. But before he could take a seat on the nearest unoccupied table a familiar voice made him stop.

"Harry! What a surprise."

Harry smiled at Mrs. Longbottom's approach. The elderly woman was thin as a wraith, but her eyes were bright, and the tight bun of white hair on her head was neat, just like the rest of her ensemble of white apron over a dark brown woolen dress. As the innkeeper, Mrs. Longbottom had always made sure the inn was clean as a whistle and had absolutely no trouble with unruly customers. "It's nice to be back here at the inn, Mrs. Longbottom."

The old woman's face crinkled into a beaming smile. "It is certainly good to see you again, young man. My grandson has been wondering when you'd visit us next." She looked over Harry's back and frowned slightly. "Did Albus decide not to come this time?"

Harry nodded. "He asked me to shoe your horses in his stead," he replied, showing her the pack of horseshoes he was carrying.

"Ah," the innkeeper nodded knowingly. "So our eccentric blacksmith has finally entrusted you with his work," she said with a smile. "All well and good, if you ask me; I daresay you'll do quite well as a blacksmith, Harry."

"Thanks." Harry could feel his cheeks go slightly warm at the praise. Scratching his head, he asked, "Is Neville here?"

"A good question, that," Mrs. Longbottom said as her brow lowered, a frown on her face. "That boy's always in his greenhouse, planting herbs and flowers. Flowers!" she exclaimed, incredulity in her voice. A few customers' heads turned in their direction. "He should be preparing to become a proper knight's page!"

Harry chuckled. "A herbologist isn't so bad, Mrs. Longbottom."

The old woman snorted. "True, if not for the fact that Neville passed the annual winter's testing."

Harry's brow rose. "He passed the testing?" His face broke into a smile. "That's amazing!"

The innkeeper's chest swelled with pride. "He'll be off to the Knight's Guild after the festival, he will! Received the letter just this morning."

Harry was genuinely happy for Neville. Few people outside the kingdom's central city—Meg Shoade—passed the yearly testing for magic. Even fewer people from the southern Gryffindor region were accepted; most of the families with strong magic in their blood resided in the Ravenclaw region to the West, or inside Meg Shoade itself, where the seat of the Atalantean government was.

"Oh goodness, how rude of me!" Mrs. Longbottom exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "You must have walked the better part of the day to get here. Sit down there and let me fix you up something real nice." She gestured for Harry to sit, then turned her head towards the direction of the kitchen. "Luna! A bowl of stew and some hot bread for Harry here!"

A slight young woman with her dirty-blonde hair tied loosely behind her came gliding out the kitchen, holding a covered tray with both hands while her silvery gray eyes gazed ahead dreamily. Harry stifled a chuckle. Luna was most likely daydreaming than doing her duties at the inn, but Mrs. Longbottom keeps her because she was quite a talented cook.

"Your stew," Luna said in a breathless voice, not really seeing Harry. "Is there anything else?"

Harry managed a smile. "Hello, Luna. Nice to see you're still with the rest of us."

Luna blinked absently and turned towards him. Only when she really looked at who was sitting at the table did a look of recognition pass her face. "Oh! It's you, Harry. I was just thinking about all those fairies in the forests up north."

Harry looked disbelievingly at Luna. "Fairies?" He looked at Mrs. Longbottom, who only shrugged and rolled her eyes before walking away. "Er…what about them, Luna?"

"Why, Harry, didn't you hear about the news? The Felwood Forests are being burned on the king's orders. He wants the fairies hunted down."

Harry was hard put not to laugh at Luna's face. The bit about the Felwood Forests being burned down might probably be true, but to hunt down _fairies_? They were wives' tales! "And er, why are they hunted down?"

Luna shrugged. "My father says it's because the fairies know the secret to some great magical power that the king wants." She half-heartedly wiped Harry's table of some imaginary dust with her apron before plucking up the tray she had served the stew with. "I wish I could help the fairies, that's all."

"Oh. Well, thanks for the stew, Luna," Harry replied in a sort of good bye, still trying not to smile. A few of the customers who had overheard grinned and winked at Harry. They knew about Luna's tendencies to daydream and believe a lot of nonsense. But only Harry and Neville talked to her and became her friend. Which was why Harry tried not to laugh in her face.

As he was finishing his meal he heard a loud thump come from the kitchen behind the bartender's table, a loud curse, and a yelp. Harry could not help grinning. He recognized the voice. More loud voices—this time from Mrs. Longbottom—then Neville himself came half-running out the kitchen.

Slightly on the pudgy side, Neville was half a hand shorter than Harry, with his dark hair and dark eyes. There was a smudge of dirt on his left cheek, which Harry guessed Neville didn't know was there. His clothes were spattered with dirt, too.

Harry grinned. "Looks like you slept in your greenhouse again."

"Harry!" Neville beamed, patting Harry in the back and pulling a chair for himself. He ignored the comment about the greenhouse. "You didn't even tell me you were coming!"

"It was unexpected," Harry replied, offering Neville his mug of ale. Neville shook his head.

"So how is our blacksmith?" Neville asked, setting down a dirty sack on the floor beside him. "Still giving you a hard time?"

Harry snorted. "Master Albus doesn't give me a hard time."

Neville grinned. "Seems to me like he does. I watched him train you last summer, didn't I?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "And laughed your head over it, too."

Neville waved it off. "Anyways, did Gran tell you the news?" His face darkened slightly.

Sensing Neville's mood, Harry nodded slowly. "So are you going?"

Neville sighed, his shoulders drooping. "You know her, Harry. I don't think anyone can be as stubborn as rock stuck in mud than my own grandmother," he grumbled, leaning his head on one hand.

Harry shrugged. "Have you tried talking it over with her?"

Neville let out a sort of dry, sarcastic laugh. "Ever since I received that bloody letter! And she still says I should go…thinks it's the right thing to do…that my life will end up better being a proper knight…"

Harry didn't think it was such a bad idea. "But she's got a point."

Neville looked slightly irritated at Harry. "I wasn't born to be a knight, Harry; I'm not cut out to be one!" He sighed, lowering his head to the table. With a muffled voice, he continued, "All I want is to care for my plants and maybe become this town's healer…"

To take his mind of the problem, Harry changed the topic. "So how did it go?"

Neville looked up. "What?"

"The testing," Harry explained. "How did it go?"

"Okay, I guess," Neville mumbled. "Gran dragged me into it, you know. She said she wanted to be sure if she should give up on her dream of having a knight for a grandson," Neville snorted. "Of course I agreed; I thought it would be the best way to stop all that foolish nonsense."

Harry gulped down a mouthful of ale. "And?"

Neville leaned back on his chair to get more comfortable. "I just stood in front of these old men who started throwing things at me. Just bits of twigs, small pebbles…I don't know what they were trying to do, but they said I shouldn't budge. No problem at all, 'cept one twig nearly poked my eye out."

Harry frowned. "That's it?" He had thought the testing was supposed to be some mysterious ritual where wizards tried to see if you had magic in you. But throwing twigs?

"It didn't stop there, of course," Neville added quickly, seeing Harry's frown. "They started throwing larger things, like stones and branches…blocks of wood…I tried dodging one that had gotten too close," Neville continued. "But they told me to stay put. Then they took out a few knives."

Harry nearly choked on his drink. "Knives?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yep," Neville nodded. "The people watching gasped; I started to get really nervous. When one old man raised his hand to throw a dagger…BAM!" Neville pounded his fist on the table for emphasis, grinning. "The next thing I knew I had put up my hands, there was this bright light, and the old man was on the ground wincing."

"Amazing," Harry breathed. "So you did magic?"

"Seems like it," Neville shrugged. "But I still don't want to become a knight." His voice was filled with resolution.

Before Harry could answer, the inn's door opened with a loud bang. Many patrons looked up from their meals, wondering what was going on. When Harry looked, he gasped as a man shuffled wearily inside, blood dripping from a wound on his right arm, which he clutched tightly. His clothes were dusty from travel, and his cloak was tattered on the edges. His eyes had a wild look about them, and he swung his head wildly, looking at everyone.

"H-Help me!" he shouted. His face was etched in fear. "Help me, I beg you!"

Neville's grandmother dashed from the kitchen wielding an evil-looking knife. "Who's the idiot who tried to ruin my door?" she said darkly. When she saw the stranger in the doorway, she quickly put down the knife and hurried to his side. Harry and Neville went, too.

"What happened?" the old woman asked gently, all thoughts of murdering the person who banged on the door gone in an instant. She glanced at his wounded arm. "Neville, tell Luna to bring a basin of hot water and some towels upstairs. Quickly, my boy, and tell her to make tea."

Neville hurriedly went to do his grandmother's bidding. Mrs. Longbottom looked up at her customers. "Go back to your meals, please; there is nothing to see here. Just an injured traveler, poor man. Harry, come on, lad; help me get him to a room upstairs."

Harry obediently followed the innkeeper up the stairs. One man who had been drinking at the nearby table helped him carry the injured stranger up the stairs and into an empty room before he went back to his table. Mrs. Longbottom thanked him earnestly before he went.

The stranger had been mumbling under his breath while Harry carried him under his arms. He kept saying things like "monster" and "hide" over and over again, but his voice was too soft for Harry to make out any more. As they struggled to put him on the bed, the man suddenly jerked himself upright, grabbing fistfuls of Harry's shirt.

"Help me!" he pleaded. "He's after me! He's going to kill me!"

Harry tried to get away, but only managed to grab the man's arm and stop him from dragging his face closer. "Who?"

The man suddenly let go, curling in on himself. "A monster…killed the entire village…large claws…everyone dead…!"

Mrs. Longbottom sighed, shaking her head sadly. "So it's true then," she said in a weary voice. She gently pushed the man back on the bed and sat down on a chair. "I never imagined."

Harry was confused. He walked towards the innkeeper. "Sorry, Mrs. Longbottom, but what are you talking about?"

The old woman looked up, sadness reflected in her eyes. "We heard rumors about the coal mine town northwest of here. Travelers say it's been attacked by a horde of monsters. Werewolves, is what they say." She shook her head again. "I didn't believe it, of course. Nobody did." She glanced at the man shivering on the bed. "But now I'm having second thoughts."

Werewolves? Harry's curiosity was piqued. "But Mrs. Longbottom, werewolves are a bit too…farfetched."

"That's what I think," the old woman nodded. "I'm guessing it's a bunch of wild wolves from Felwood forest. You might have heard about Luna talking about that, I suppose?"

"Er…"

"Ah, don't give me that face, Harry; what Luna says is true." She wiped sweat from her brow and frowned at the door. "What's keeping Neville with that water?"

Harry looked surprised. "Luna was telling the truth?"

"Part of it, anyway," Mrs. Longbottom replied. "The king ordered a large part of the Felwood forest burned to the ground."

"Why?"

"Why? Heavens, child, do you think I'd know anything about how a king thinks?" the innkeeper looked at Harry. "All I have are speculations, and I'm guessing that the king wants that forest burned down for something."

Harry did not know what to reply, so he remained silent. Neville came in, carrying a large basin and a kettle of water, with Luna holding a bunch of clean towels. As soon as they arrived, Mrs. Longbottom ushered both Harry and Neville outside, leaving her and Luna to tend to the stranger's wound. As soon as the door closed, Neville looked at Harry.

"So what happened to him?" he asked as they walked back downstairs.

Harry waited until they had seated themselves back on their table before he told Neville everything. Neville listened intently, his eyebrows rising at the mention of werewolves.

"Yeah, Gran and I heard about that rumor," he told Harry when he finished. "A group of merchants from Lalaine's Crest stayed for a night before they left for C'Girod Valley." He lowered his voice and craned his neck low; Harry did the same. "They say they crossed a small band of mercenaries hunting for werewolves a few weeks before they got here."

"Really? But I thought werewolves weren't real."

Neville nodded. "That's what me and Gran think; maybe what they're really hunting for are wolves or other wild animal."

Harry frowned. "Why won't the wizards do anything?"

Neville snorted. "They wouldn't care what happens to Muggles, Harry. Not unless those Muggles are working in their vineyards or making their robes. And besides, no town or village can afford to pay a wizard to rid them of an animal. They charge too much for their magic."

Harry thought of this for a moment. "Is that why there aren't any wizards in Ellis?"

Neville shrugged. "I suppose so. Better ask Mayor Fudge about that."

"But isn't the mayor a wizard, too?"

"Yeah," Neville answered. "But Gran told me he had only a low rank, so he was given the title of mayor in a backwater town like ours."

Harry and Neville continued their discussion into the night, until Mrs. Longbottom herself forced them to get some sleep. But before going to his room, Harry asked the innkeeper about the stranger.

"He's asleep now," she answered. "As you should be. Now. I'll tell you more in the morning Harry; you have horses to shoe tomorrow." Then she ushered him into a cozy room with the fire already going, so that by the time Mrs. Longbottom had gone down the stairs, Harry was already snoring on his bed, his tired body begging for sleep.#


	4. The RunAway Prince

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are the intellectual property of the authoress._

**4**

**The Run-Away Prince**

Harry woke up to Mrs. Longbottom's sharp knock on his door. Yawning, he stretched and got up, washing his face hurriedly and stamping on his boots to keep his feet from freezing. The fire had long since been extinguished, and winter lingered in the air too much to allow Harry some comfort. He carried his leather apron in one hand and his tools and the horseshoes in another; he wanted to start on his work right after breakfast and head back to the smithy before the sun began its descent.

The scent of freshly-baked bread and hot soup greeted him as he went down the wooden stairs into the inn's common room. Luna was already there, serving a dark-bearded farmer who nodded appreciatively at his plate of food. The innkeeper was sweeping the front door with an old broom, greeting the townsfolk as they passed with a warm smile.

It was Neville who first saw Harry, and he waved at him to a table already laden with food. Harry's stomach grumbled and his mouth watered at the sight of breakfast. Neville chuckled. "I guess it would be pointless to ask if you're hungry."

Harry sat down on a chair and let his things drop in another. "Ravishing. The journey must have tired me more than I thought, and the stranger last night..." Harry let his words hang, and he looked meaningfully at Neville.

Neville understood. He shrugged and drank from a chipped cup before answering, "He's still asleep, from what Gran tells me, but he isn't thrashing about like last night. His wound has stopped bleeding, too, although Gran says she has to call the Healer from the next town over."

Harry was surprised. From what he knew, Healers were only called when the local village doctor's herbs could not help. "Is his wound that bad?"

"My grandmother won't tell me anything," Neville said sourly, but then shrugged. "It'd be interesting to see a Healer, anyway. I haven't met one in years, not since old Filch burned his arm."

Harry nodded, not really hearing him. He had not even met a Healer in his entire life. He had heard stories of them though; stories about people--mostly women—who could heal and mend even broken bones in an instant, whose potions and mysterious concoctions were solutions to anything from stubborn acne to love. He also knew they were wizards and witches who used magic, and they followed their own religion, something Master Albus had called the 'Friaran Way'.

Mrs. Longbottom walked up to them then, broomstick still in her hand. She took one glance at the tools and leather apron on one chair and gave an approving nod at Harry. "So you'll be working straightaway then, Harry? Good; maybe that will give my grandson a hint and make him start preparing himself to become a page."

Neville suddenly coughed into his tea, spluttering. Harry stifled a laugh that came out as a cough. The innkeeper eyed her grandson shrewdly. "A few weeks more and the snow will have melted enough in the passes to the valley. Enough for travel to where you'll be training." She said it with a tone that expected no argument.

Harry watched, half-amused and half-pitying his friend. Neville looked up to see his grandmother's penetrating gaze at him, and he quickly cast his eyes on the table, mumbling under his breath. Harry thought he could hear the words "unfair" and "greenhouse".

"Mrs. Longbottom," Harry said finally, making his tone as smooth and polite as possible. "Wouldn't it be better if you let Neville do what he likes?" When the innkeeper directed her gaze to him he quickly added, "If Neville isn't happy with becoming a page, it would make him miserable and..." his voice trailed off, his hands gesturing to Neville, who was casting uneasy looks at him and his grandmother. "I just don't think it would be...fair...for Neville."

Mrs. Longbottom was silent for a moment. Then, "That wool-headed blacksmith has rubbed off on you," she said with a sigh, shaking her head. She leaned her broomstick against the table and pulled herself a chair, easing into it with another sigh.

Neville waited until she sat down before he spoke up. "Gran, I--"

The innkeeper cut him off with a small wave of her hand. "I know what you are going to say, young man. But you haven't heard my side yet." She pursed her lips. "I didn't think you were ready to hear this yet but--" she gave them a wry grin--"I didn't think boys like you grew up fast, either."

Harry squirmed in his seat. "Uh, maybe I should go and take a look at the horses now." From Mrs. Longbottom's tone, she was about to talk about something personal, and Harry did not want to intrude on something between Neville and his grandmother. But the innkeeper only shook her head.

"I think you ought to listen to this, too, lad. You're the only one in this whole town that Neville trusts as much as he trusts me, and I've a feeling you'd learn something from this, too." Harry considered it for a moment before nodding.

"Years ago, my son decided to leave Ellis when he passed the annual testing. It was voluntary then, mind you, not like now. He passed it plain as daylight, but he didn't want to become a knight. He wanted to become a proper scholarly wizard, he did." Her face had a faraway look as she began her story, and both Neville and Harry perked up their ears to listen.

"His father and I didn't agree at first, of course. Being a wizard was dangerous those times, because of You-Know-Who. We'd have been content if he continued the family business. But he finally persuaded us, and he went off to Anorwé to study.

"There's a school there, and that's where your father learned everything he needed to become a wizard. He met your mother there, too, and someone else. A certain...person...from a certain family we shouldn't mention about here," she said in a low voice.

Both Neville and Harry blinked in surprise, breaths hitched in their throats. Neville leaned over the table conspiratorially and whispered, "You mean the Potters, don't you Gran?"

"Potters!" Harry exclaimed, before he could stop himself. The innkeeper shushed him quickly and he apologized with a slight blush. "Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Never you mind," Mrs. Longbottom shook her head. "But don't say it again, lad, or you'll find yourself carted off to someplace nasty--I know, because I've heard rumors about it." She looked around carefully, trying to see if anyone was within hearing range. The black bearded farmer had just finished his food and was shuffling out the door, not paying them any attention. The other patrons of the inn were too far away.

Continuing, the innkeeper said, "So, yes. _That_ person, who was a member of that certain family, became Frank's friend. In his letters, my son said they were quite the gang, him and his circle of friends. When they got off school they quickly put their talents to good use. Before long your father worked at the royal court, and that was when he married Alice. A year after, they had you."

Neville's face took on an unreadable expression. "Did they ever visited you, Gran?"

The innkeeper nodded, a smile on her lips. "Every summer. They came here every summer like clockwork, and when they had you, they let you come along, too." She chuckled suddenly. "I remember when you first rode a horse, Neville. Old Wind was still a pony then, but you screamed like a girl when you saw him. When your father had coaxed you into the saddle, you kept right on crying."

Neville rolled his eyes. "So now I know the reason why I'm not very suited at riding horses. Childhood trauma."

Harry tilted his head confusingly at the innkeeper. "But Mrs. Longbottom, what has this got to do with Neville's testing?"

"Just this, lad," the innkeeper replied, her sharp gaze on Harry and Neville. "Frank and Alice were accomplished wizard and witch both. They had dreams for you, Neville; my son always said that when you were old enough, he would enroll you at the magic school in Anorwé; and make sure you grew up knowing how to use the magic running in your veins." She sighed. "But because of the Blood War a few years past, no one but the registered wizarding families could send their children to that school now. The guild of knights is the only option for people like us."

Both Harry and Neville fell silent, pondering on the old woman's words. Then Harry spoke up. "But you said that Master Frank and his wife were working at the royal court. Wouldn't the magic school accept Neville because of this?"

The innkeeper smiled sadly at Harry. "Lad, working at the royal court doesn't make them special. And their associations with...well, with _that family_, made them an enemy in the king's eyes."

Neville scratched at his nose. "I don't really understand what happened during the Blood War, Gran," he said. "All you ever tell me when I asked was that it was the worst thing that had happened to Atalanta aside from You-Know-Who's almost-successful conquest."

Harry sat up straighter at this point and pricked his ears in interest. Master Albus never wanted to mention the Blood War to him. Whenever Harry asked, all the blacksmith would say was that wars were a terrible thing that should be forgotten, not remembered. Harry knew he had been born around that time, but he did not know anything about his family. Master Albus had been taking care of him ever since he could remember.

The innkeeper straightened, shaking her head. "And I wasn't lying. Truth be told, that war was the last thing we needed. Everyone lived in fear of finding soldiers banging at their door and arresting loved ones for charges like treason, murder, betraying the kingdom to You-Know-Who, and allegiance to the...the Potters," she lowered her voice at the end. "When the war ended, then King Regent Lucius Malfoy banned anyone from even breathing the Potters' names. He charged them with heavy treason, said they were the ones who betrayed Atalanta to You-Know-Who. Trash, if you ask me. But there it is."

"And Neville's parents?" Harry asked softly.

"Gran told me about them when I got old enough to understand," Neville answered Harry, avoiding his gaze. He looked down on the table. "They left me with Gran when I was around five years old, saying they had to help stop the war before it got out of hand." He closed his eyes. "We've never heard anything about them since. They're dead now, Harry," Neville said woodenly.

"They're not dead," Mrs. Longbottom said suddenly, her voice soft, but her eyes were filled with a staunch refusal to believe in the contrary. "They're alive, Neville. I know it in my bones; my son is still alive somewhere."

"Where, though?" Neville asked with slight petulance. He frowned slightly, eyes opening and daring his grandmother to answer. "We haven't heard from them for twelve years now, Gran. Twelve years!"

The innkeeper looked as though she wanted to say something, but only shook her head sadly. "I know it's difficult, lad, but you must believe me. They're alive."

"And that's the reason why you keep pushing me to become a knight?" Neville asked angrily. "Because you believe that my parents are still alive and waiting for me somewhere?" He gripped the edge of the table tightly. "They're dead, Gran. As dead as those Potters." He stood up suddenly and left without another word.

Harry stood up to follow, but the innkeeper said, "Leave him be, Harry. Neville has harbored anger for his parents ever since he knew they left him to me." She looked up at him. "I knew this would happen if I told him, but my grandson deserved to know the truth."

Harry reluctantly sat back, silently nodding. "But are you sure his parents are alive? I mean, isn't it a bit too much to hope that they would return when you haven't heard word of them for so long?"

The innkeeper studied him carefully before answering. "Yes, I am sure." Her voice had no tinge of doubt. "But I can't tell you why I know. Not yet, when..." her voice trailed off, sighing again. Somehow she looked older than Harry could remember. Lines of worry crossed her face, and her hands shook slightly.

Uncomfortable, Harry decided it was time for him to get on with his work. "Well, Mrs. Longbottom, I'd better go and see to the horses." He stood up and grabbed his tools and the bag of horseshoes.

"Do you know, Harry, that Albus arrived in Ellis the very night Frank and his wife left Neville to me?" Mrs. Longbottom said suddenly, and Harry stopped, staring at her. "They arrived in the dead of night. I remember the blacksmith carrying a small bundle in his arms. He was carrying it like it was something fragile." She looked up. "My son told me Albus found you in a burning village south of the capital when they fled the Regent's soldiers."

Harry's eyes widened slightly. He had never known how the blacksmith found him, or how he came to be in his care. "Did he tell you what village?" he asked before he could stop himself. Maybe he could search for his family, maybe--

"I'm sorry lad," Mrs. Longbottom answered. "But you had better ask Albus. He knows more about you than I ever will, I suspect." She paused for a while before adding, "All I know is, my son and his wife made me swear by our blood to help Albus raise you whenever I could, and protect you as if you were my own grandchild."

Harry did not know what to say to this. He looked away, thinking. A shot of pain stabbed his chest at what he had heard. Does this mean Mrs. Longbottom and Neville were only kind to him because of some oath?

Mrs. Longbottom's hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts. The old woman was smiling at him. "But oath or no oath lad, I would have gone and done the same without hesitation. You and Neville are like brothers, Harry. And to me, you are both my grandchildren," she said firmly. "Now run along and work with my horses; I'm going to need them if I'm going to buy enough supplies for my inn to work properly."

o0o0o0o

It took Harry the better part of the day to finish his work; the horses had proved a challenge to him, especially old Wind, Mrs. Longbottom's favorite stallion. He had been quite frisky after being tied up inside the barn for the entire winter. After fitting the shoes, Harry brushed all four horses down and checked if their saddles needed any work before telling Mrs. Longbottom that he was finished.

The innkeeper inspected her horses with a nod of satisfaction. She handed Harry a small bag of coins. "That should cover your labor and the metal for the shoes," she said as she gave the drawstring pouch to Harry. "Now that you're finished, why don't you go get washed and I'll have Luna prepare your lunch? That way you can visit the fair and buy something for your birthday."

Harry grinned. "Thanks, Mrs. Longbottom. Maybe I'll do just that." Although he didn't like going to fairs, he might be able to come across Neville there. He went up his room and changed his shirt before finishing the meal Luna had set down on an empty table at the inn. Harry tied a small pouch of coins at his belt before he walked the streets of Ellis towards the open field where the fair would be.

There was quite a crowd at the fair, and Harry had difficulty looking for his friend. The whole field was fenced off with wooden posts, and merchants had set up their respective stands haphazardly that it looked like chaos to Harry. There were hawkers crying out their wares and booths were games were set up, like knife-throwing, dice, and archery. His interest was caught by the archery contest; he walked towards it and studied the roped-off area where the targets were.

A thin-faced middle-aged man walked towards him with a wide grin, seeing him a potential customer. He bowed enthusiastically at Harry. "Ah, good sir! Care to test your ability at shooting? Just a Knut per arrow, and if you hit all five targets without one miss you'll win twenty Sickles. What do you say, young sir?"

"Ah, maybe later," Harry replied with a smile. "How far are the targets?"

"The first one is thirty paces, the next fifty, seventy, a hundred, and two hundred paces." The man was still grinning, and he eyed Harry's belt pouch with interest. "With a strapping young lad like you, that should be easy, eh?"

"Mmm." Harry looked at the targets carefully. Each target was a round wooden board an arm wide with a fist-sized circle in the middle painted red. But Harry could see that the two farthest targets had smaller red circles than the other three. There was no way an amateur archer could have shot that far. He grinned to himself; a good thing the blacksmith had taught him more than just metal craft.

The thin man saw Harry's grin and interpreted it as eagerness. He gestured toward several bows arranged carefully on a table near him. "Just choose your bow and your arrows, good sir. Mind you, one Knut per arrow."

"Maybe later," Harry replied. "I have to find a friend, first." He walked away, ignoring the man's offer to double the prize if he tried it now. Harry cast his eyes to the crowds, searching for Neville. As he did, several traders offered their wares to him. There was a weapon smith who showed him a broad sword, too. Harry looked at it interestingly, but shook his head the man's offer of seventy Sickles. Master Albus could make better swords at a lower price.

There were several women traders and jewelers who offered him rings, necklaces, and other trinkets to offer his lady love; these Harry declined respectfully, trying hard not to blush at their comments on his physique and the shocked expressions on their faces when he told them he had no one to give the trinkets to. To Harry's dismay, this had been the wrong answer; in an instant they were all on him, offering their trinkets as well as names of young women around the town who'd be delighted to receive a small trinket or two. Or three.

Harry was almost grateful to leave them behind, quickly ducking between two fruit stands in order to get away. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found no one was tailing him. Randomly turning corners, Harry found himself in a part of the fair that sold potted plants and seeds, and grinned. Neville would most likely be here.

Harry found Neville studying a potted plant in one of the stands. The vendor, a short plump woman with short, brown hair, was grinning and bowing at Neville. Harry walked towards them and caught their conversation.

"...was quite surprised to find an herbologist here in this small town, but there you have it," said the woman in a delighted tone. "I'm sure you're quite learned, knowing a lot about my plants."

"Not really," Neville smiled abashedly. "But I have my own greenhouse, and plants have always been an interest for me."

Harry grinned. "I don't know what else could have you looking like a kid who's received an early birthday present." Neville turned and smiled at Harry, although Harry noticed his smile was a bit forced.

"Harry," Neville began. "I was just about to come look for you when I saw that this lady had an impressive collection of herbs." He held up a pot and pointed excitedly to it. "Look! Belladonna! I heard they were quite rare and hard to grow. I was planning to cultivate it myself." He turned to the woman. "How much for this?"

The woman nodded appreciatively at Neville's choice. "Ah, that my young sir. I remember I got the seedling for that Belladonna from a merchant in the capital. He claimed he got it from the heart of the Black Mountains, and if I do say so myself, I think it's true." She smiled at Neville. "Only twenty-five Sickles."

"Twenty-five!" Neville looked shocked. "That's highway robbery!"

"Ah, but the plant is rare, and as you said, hard to grow," the woman said.

Neville looked torn between leaving and buying the plant. "How about fifteen Sickles?"

The woman shook her head. "I would end up loosing my trade if you keep lowering the price that much, young sir," she said in a tone that told them she had nothing but her plants left. Harry kept himself from rolling his eyes. "Twenty-three Sickles."

"Eighteen."

The woman smiled indulgently at him. "Twenty Sickles."

"Done!" Harry said suddenly, and Neville spun to face him. Harry ignored him for the moment and addressed the woman. "But you will have to excuse us first; we'll come back later for the plant. Can you guarantee that no one else buys it?"

The woman nodded, and Harry dragged Neville away, who still looked unbelievingly at Harry. When they were out of earshot Harry stopped and turned to see Neville, who was now spluttering at him.

"Twenty Sickles!" Neville said indignantly. "You could buy a horse with that much money. And you decided to buy a _plant_?"

Harry snorted. "The way you looked at the plant, you seemed willing to give the woman half the kingdom for it."

Neville scowled. "I don't have twenty Sickles, Harry."

Harry grinned. "You will." He led Neville towards the archery booth. The thin man guarding the place came at them, his grin even wider than before at seeing Harry tag along Neville.

"Ah, young sir! Care to take that shot, now?"

Harry thrust five Knuts into his hand and smiled. "All I have to do is shoot those five targets without missing, right? And I get to choose the bow and the arrows?"

"Indeed sir, you do," the thin man grinned and licked his lips greedily. Harry could almost hear the man's self-satisfied chuckle. "Here, sir, pick your bow and your arrows."

Harry studied each bow carefully, testing their strings. Neville looked worriedly at him. "Harry, are you sure about this?"

"What? Of course I am," Harry said absently. The first three bows were made of soft wood; they were easy to draw, but the arrow wouldn't shoot past a hundred paces at that rate. He quickly disregarded the next two bows.

"But those targets..." Neville looked carefully at the targets. He whispered to Harry, "I don't think they're the same sizes."

Harry grinned at him. "That's right."

"And you're still going to try? You're just going to loose your money!"

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing." Harry picked up the last bow. It was longer than the rest. The wood was painted bright red and smooth to the touch, but quite rigid. The string was taught, made of some fine white animal hair Harry could not identify. There was an insignia engraved on both ends of the bow: a griffin holding a shield in his talons, quartered by two swords.

Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the man. "Where did this bow come from?"

"Ah. That one. I traded it for two of my finest horses at the port city of Anorwé from a young lord," the man answered without flinching. Harry could hear the lie in his voice; a bow of this craftsmanship would be worth more than just two horses. He had a nagging suspicion the man could lie through his teeth even at sword point.

Harry shrugged. He chose five arrows from the bucket nearby. At least the arrows were all of fine make, if not as great as the bow. When it was obvious Harry had chosen the red bow, the man said, "Ah, young sir, it might be better if you chose one of the other bows; the string on this one is too taught to draw. Why, a man three times wider than you are tried to and almost broke his fingers."

"Really?" Harry raised the bow and pulled the string to his cheek, letting it loose with a resonating 'twang'. He shrugged at the man. "It seems in good condition to me."

The man seemed surprised to find that the bow really was working, but he quickly recovered and bowed as enthusiastically as before. "Of course, young sir. I'd forgotten that I had it repaired at a village while traveling here. My mistake." He gestured towards the target area. "If would be so kind...?"

Harry took the bow and the five arrows to where he was supposed to stand. He tested the wind, and finding it to his liking, fitted the first arrow into the bow and pulled the string easily.

The arrow struck true, digging itself into the center for the first target. Neville whooped in delight behind the ropes. The man smiled easily, confident that Harry wasn't going to hit the other targets as easily. Harry grinned in spite of himself. The man thought he was going to get away with cheating like this?

The second and third arrows found their targets as well, and Neville clapped. Harry was startled to hear other people clapping. He turned around and saw a few people watching. Harry suddenly felt embarrassed at the sudden attention, but the thin-faced man was already frowning, darting his eyes from Harry to the targets. Any thoughts of backing out fled his mind. He gripped the red bow tightly in his hand. _I'll show that lying weasel a lesson or two._

Suddenly Harry felt the bow go warm in his hand, and he looked down, expecting the thing to be burning. But there was nothing different about it. The bow was still in his hands, but Harry was sure he could feel it; a strange, comforting warmth, as if it was trying to tell Harry something. A sudden idea struck him.

Turning to the man, Harry said, "What if I raised the prize a bit?" he offered. "Of course I'll pay more, too. He threw the small pouch of money at the man, who snatched it out of the air. "There's fifty Sickles there. I'll wager you I can hit the last two targets twice each without missing."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Interesting, young sir. But what would you ask in return?"

"This bow," Harry answered, grinning. "And my twenty Sickles, of course."

The man laughed at Harry as if he were making a very funny joke. His small audience whispered to each other and were laughing, too. Harry ignored them. Neville was starting to look worried again. He was the only one of two people who were not laughing. One was a tall individual wearing a long woolen cloak and leading a horse by the reins. He had his face hidden, but Harry instinctively knew he was not laughing, only staring at Harry.

"That's all very well and good, young sir," the thin-faced man answered, wiping a tear from his eye. "But wouldn't it better if you stuck with our original bargain? I'm sure your lady wouldn't be disappointed with that."

The man thought he was showing off? Harry bristled slightly at the thought, but kept an easy smile. "Three times, then. Each target."

The man seemed about to laugh again, but upon seeing Harry's serious expression, he grinned. Considering his options carefully, he answered, "Alright. But if you loose you'll have to clean my horse's stable for a week after this." The crowd had gone quiet, waiting for Harry's response.

Harry nodded. "Agreed."

The man volunteered to grab his bucket of arrows and offered them to Harry with a mocking bow. Harry ignored him and chose four more arrows and stuck them on the ground beside him.

"Harry! Harry, you brainless git!" Neville waved frantically to him. When Harry got near, he grabbed Harry's shirt and leaned towards him, hissing fiercely, "What on earth are you doing?! Have you gone mad?"

"Relax, Neville," Harry answered with a grin. "I'm pretty sure I still have my senses intact." He dropped his grin. "That man stole this bow, Neville. I know it."

"But you've no proof, idiot! You can't prove that, can you?"

Harry showed the bow to Neville. "Do you think someone like him could afford to buy something like this?"

Neville eyed the bow doubtfully, then shrugged. "Are you sure about this?"

"Positive." Harry waved at Neville and readied himself to shoot. Glancing back, he could see Neville watching him. The cloaked person was watching, too, along with the five or so other spectators.

Harry took a deep, calming breath, took an arrow, and pulled the string...

Minutes later Neville was carrying his Belladonna plant in one arm, and Harry had the bow strapped down his back. Neville was grinning at Harry and shaking his head in disbelief at intervals. "Blimey, Harry, I knew you were an excellent shot, but that was amazing!"

Harry scratched his head sheepishly. "Neither did I." He couldn't tell Neville that the bow somehow guided him to the target, coming alive with warmth in his hands when he drew the arrow to his cheeks. The bow was not warm now; it felt ordinary to Harry, although he knew that it must have some sort of magic inside it. "How about we go back to the inn?"

Neville agreed happily. The sun was already beginning to set by the time they had finished at the fair. The thin-faced man had not been too happy to give the bow to Harry, but with too many people watching he could do nothing but grumble under his breath while giving Harry murderous looks.

As they rounded an empty street they stopped. The cloaked man was standing a few paces from them, his horse nowhere in sight. Harry stiffened; he drew Neville back with an outstretched hand. Neville looked puzzled.

"What is it?" he asked Harry. He saw the stranger. "Do you know him, Harry?"

The cloaked man shifted when he saw the bow behind Harry. "I'll give you twenty Galleons for the bow," he said curtly. Neville gasped at the price. No one in Ellis had ever heard of such a large amount before. Even Harry's eyes widened.

When Harry and Neville didn't reply, the man said, "Thirty Galleons, then."

This seemed to shake Harry out of his shock. He frowned suspiciously at the man. "I won this bow fair and square. I do not have any intention of selling it."

The man's voice was now tinged with impatience and anger. "Come to your senses, man, I'm already offering you thirty Galleons for a bow." He paused. "Or maybe you'd want to raise the price? Fifty Galleons? A hundred? Name your price and I will pay it."

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "The bow is not for sale."

The man growled in frustration. He looked around and told Harry, "This is no time to play at a stubborn-headed mule! Give me the bow and I will pay you whatever price you want!" He removed the cowl hiding his face and looked at Harry.

The man was of an age with Harry and Neville. He had flaming red hair and blue eyes that were sharp with anger. Freckles dotted his nose, and there was a tinge of pink in his cheeks as he fumed at Harry. He was tall but a bit thin and gangly.

As he took a step towards Harry he waved his cloak aside with a sweep of his arm, and Harry saw a quiver of arrows at his hip, the case painted as red as the bow. It also had the same insignia of the griffin engraved on the side.

"That bow doesn't belong to you," the young man said as he approached, his voice low. "You have no idea--"

He stopped abruptly when Harry took the bow and offered it to him. "Here."

The young man's face went slack, confused. He took the bow in his hands and stared at Harry. "But I thought--"

"You're right, the bow doesn't belong to me," Harry replied. He nodded towards the quiver that was now half-hidden behind the cloak. Harry suspected he was some young lord out hunting who had come across a band of brigands who stole his bow. "It belongs to you."

Neville watched the exchange with silent amazement, first at Harry, then at the young man. "How did you know that?" he asked Harry finally.

"The bow and quiver has the same color and insignia, and I'll bet a Galleon it has the same quality of workmanship," Harry answered. He crossed his arms at the young stranger. "At the very least, I'd want to have my fifty Sickles back."

The young man suddenly grinned at him. He grabbed a pouch from his pockets and handed it to Harry. "Here."

Harry opened the pouch and gasped when he saw gold Galleons inside. There was no silver Sickle. "This is too much!"

The young man laughed. "For the trouble you've saved me, as well as returning the bow without any hesitation. Also for your honesty." He offered his hand. "The name's Ronald, but you can call me Ron."

Harry shook his hand, still a bit disbelieving at the fortune in his hands. "Harry. This is Neville Longbottom."

"Longbottom?" Ron looked at Neville with an interested look. "The innkeeper's grandson?"

Neville looked surprised. "You know Gran?"

"I rented a room at your inn just this afternoon," Ron replied. "I'm looking for someone, and she told me your friend Harry could help."

Harry tilted his head. "Who are you looking for?"

Ron strapped the bow behind him and answered, "I'm looking for a man who I believe calls himself Albus. A blacksmith, or so I've heard."

They walked to the Croaking Frog together, talking. "Why are you looking for Master Albus?"

"You're his apprentice, I gather?" When Harry nodded, Ron answered. "I was told he could help me with something."

Harry frowned slightly. "You want to ask him to fix a weapon for you?"

Ron darted a glance at Harry. "In a way."

When they reached the inn's common room, Harry was surprised to find Master Albus sitting on a table near the fireplace sipping tea. Mrs. Longbottom was seated with him, and they both looked up to see him, Neville, and Ron enter the door.

Before anyone could say anything, Ron rushed forward and bowed with one knee bent in front of Albus. The blacksmith only raised an eyebrow as Ron said, "By the gods, it _is_ you! Master Dumbledore!" He looked up with a look of urgency in his eyes. "We have to hurry, Master Dumbledore. My sister, she--"

"Calm down, young Weasley," Albus raised a hand, and Ron stopped in mid-talk. "Take off your cloak and sit by the fire, if you please. I find talking quite uncomfortable in this manner." When he saw Harry, he said, "Ah, Harry. Mrs. Longbottom told me you did quite a work with her horses. Splendid, splendid, lad. Come sit at the table and we'll talk while we eat." His eyes twinkled at Harry. "I heard you were quite a shot with the bow back at the fair."

"How did you...?" Harry began in wonder. He looked at Mrs. Longbottom, who only shrugged, and Neville, who looked as nonplussed as himself. Harry turned to Ron and his mouth hung open.

With Ron's cloak already out of the way, Harry could see quite clearly that Ron was not just some young lord. His coat was made of finely woven dark green wool with thread-of-gold embroidery running down his arms and the hem. The buttons of his coat was made of pure jade lined with gold, and his cream-colored shirt was silk. A short dark green cape hung on one arm pinned with a large gold-wired brooch of a griffin made of garnet stones. His boots were dusty and travel worn, but they were sturdily built of the finest leather. A long rapier hung by his belt made of dark brown leather and studded with lesser stones. The red quiver filled with arrows hung on his other hip. The bow completed his ensemble.

"Bloody hell!" Neville gasped. "Who...?!"

"This," Albus replied calmly with a small smile, "is Ronald Weasley, Fifth Prince of Atalanta, and older brother to our Queen, Ginevra Molly Weasley ter' Malfoy."#


	5. The Sword of Fire

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are the intellectual property of the authoress._

**5**

**The Sword of Fire**

A loud banging on the cell door rudely woke up Hermione from her dream, and she got up mechanically, brushing off bits of hay that served as her makeshift bed on the floor from her gray and dirty wool dress that was patched in several places. Her dream had been nice: she dreamt she was back in the little fishing village that was her home, building sandcastles on the beach. Both of her parents were modest trading merchants. They were Muggles, so it had been a joyous event when they found out she passed the testing. Hermione closed her eyes, remembering. She wondered where her parents were, now.

The small slot at the bottom of the heavily bolted door slid open, and a large hand slid a tray of food inside. Hermione took the tray and stared at its contents. A whole loaf of bread, a chipped pitcher of water, two wooden cups, and two small bowls of broth. She sighed, and tried to fix a smile on her face as she turned.

"Your majesty, I am sure you're already famished. Here, they have brought us food, at least," she said in a mild tone, carrying the tray over to where her Queen sat on the only pallet inside the cell door. Queen Ginevra was staring up at the small window at least three spans above their heads, letting afternoon sunlight and specks of dust float in. Even without seeing, Hermione knew the windows were barred with iron. She tried hard not to think of bars and cells as she approached, knowing her worry would surely show on her face.

Ginny looked up at the sound of her handmaid's voice, tensing, but eased back into her previous position when she recognized Hermione. When she saw the tray of food, she snorted with disgust. "Bread, broth, and water, I suspect," she said in a dry voice.

"Yes, your majesty." Hermione barely bit back another sigh. At least she was calm now. When the soldiers threw them both in here three days ago, the queen fought like a spitting, clawing wildcat, demanding their release. Of course the jail guards only laughed, but they stopped laughing when the queen actually managed to kick one of the soldiers between his legs and he went down groaning in pain. They stayed a fair distance from them after that. Although the memory of the idiot's pain was quite satisfying, Hermione shook herself from her thoughts and focused on the matter at hand, which was to persuade the queen to eat. Pouring water into one of the cups, she handed it to the queen. "Here, your majesty."

Ginny looked hard at the offered cup of water, then at Hermione. The girl was terrified to the tips of her hair, but she was still acting as if they were in the royal chambers of the queen. _But I am not queen anymore._ She stared at Hermione's brown eyes softly pleading for her to take the cup and eat. Ginny knew that Hermione was only doing this because she knew it was the only thing she could do under the circumstances, to keep her mind from wandering into thoughts of what would happen to them.

"You do not need to do this anymore, Hermione," Ginny said in a soft voice, avoiding her eyes. "I have no right to be called 'Your Majesty' either."

Ginny half-expected Hermione's refusal to stop acknowledging her as queen; she did not expect her to smile, like what she was doing now. "You can't expect me to stop saying that when I've been serving you since you were crowned three years ago." She offered the cup again. "As for doing this..." she shrugged. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

Ginny stared in amazement at Hermione. She was terrified, yes, but she showed none of it. Only her eyes spoke of her fear, but her voice was steady, and she was not shaking. Ginny had not had a decent sleep for the past three nights, and she shivered under her shift whenever she thought of the gallows that awaited them outside.

Ginny shook her head and chuckled. "You have courage, Hermione." She placed the cup nearby and folded her legs underneath her to give Hermione room in the small pallet so they could eat in relative comfort. "I wish I did, too."

"If I had courage, your Majesty, I would have kicked General Goyle the way you did at the soldier before," Hermione replied in a wry tone, calmly sipping hot broth from her bowl.

Ginny smiled. Hermione was the closest she had to a friend, even though her status as queen and Hermione's standing as a castle servant went in the way. But now that she had been ousted from the throne... "Call me Ginny."

Hermione looked up at her and saw Ginny's small smile. She smiled herself. "Alright. Ginny then, not 'your Majesty'. Mind you, it will take a lot of effort to forget calling you by your title."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Just look at where we are, Hermione. Does a queen have a cell for her quarters?" She drank gratefully from the cup and sipped the broth, not caring if the hot liquid burned her throat. She had not eaten anything since they had been holed up here. With a grimace she put the bowl down. "I remembered I was the one who ordered that the prisoners be fed with broth aside from bread and water. I never imagined I would be the prisoner, though."

Hermione took the loaf of hard bread from the tray and tapped it lightly against her palm. "You could have ordered them to give the bread sliced, not whole," she said while frowning at the bread. "This thing is harder than a rock!"

Ginny looked at Hermione sharply, her heart beating hard against her chest. _This fast?_ "Let me see that." She grabbed the loaf of bread from Hermione and examined the bottom part of the bread. There was a small cross mark there. She gasped softly, then exhaled slowly to calm herself. "I did not expect to receive one this quickly," she mused to herself.

Hermione was taken by surprise at Ginny's sudden movement, and stared confusedly at her as she examined the underside of the bread. "What is it, Majesty?" she breathed softly, aware that there were guards posted at their door at all times.

Ginny shook her head and gestured for her to be silent. Hermione watched as the former queen broke the bread in two and began tearing away the inside part of one half, eating what she took out. "Uh, you could have told me you were hungry," Hermione began to say, but stopped when Ginny gave her a sharp, withering look.

Before long Ginny's eyes lit up as she took out a rolled piece of paper from the inside of the bread. Hermione gasped. "What...?"

"Draco was not making foolish accusations when he said my father and I were involved in a rebellious alliance," Ginny said in a soft tone as she rolled out the note, brushing away crumbs that had landed on her dress. "But we were not planning to rebel against the kingdom. Only against him."

Hermione's eyes popped at the revelation, her mouth agape. "But..." she spluttered. "Why would you--"

Ginny shushed her quickly as footsteps neared their cell door. She quickly folded the note and tucked it under the thin blankets of the pallet. "No matter what happens, do not let anyone else see the note," Ginny instructed in a whisper. "Act as if nothing happened."

Hermione barely had time to nod before the door was pushed open and four heavily-armed soldiers stepped inside, taking up posts by the door, their armors gleaming dully from the shaft of sunlight overhead. After them entered General Goyle in all his bulkiness, a gloating smile on his face as he planted himself a few paces from where Ginny and Hermione sat. When the king himself entered, Hermione immediately stood up and did a curtsy. Ginny remained in bed, but now she was sitting upright, her chin set high and her hands calmly resting on her lap, as if she was sitting on a throne and not on an old pallet in a dungeon. Her blue eyes were hard and as cold as ice as she regarded Draco.

The king's face was touched by an amused smile. "And how fares my lovely queen?" he asked in a mocking tone. He glanced at the half-eaten tray of food. "Is the food to your liking?"

Ginny's eyes flashed with anger. "What do you want, Draco?" Her tone was hard.

"Come now, Ginny. Have I no right to visit my queen?"

Ginny bristled. "Do not call me by that name!" Hermione flinched form where she stood with her eyes cast on the floor, sweat beading on her forehead. Ginny ignored her and went right on. "You have no right calling me that. And I am certainly _not_ your queen any longer; I ceased becoming this kingdom's queen when you took the Crown of Truth from me and threw me in this prison!"

Draco gave a scornful laugh. "Then you should stop acting like a proud queen, Ginevra. You have no throne, no crown, and certainly no wand to help you escape." His eyes gleamed with malice. "Tell me where your pathetic rebellion is hiding Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione thought she saw a flicker of astonishment in Ginny's face before a cold smile twisted her lips. "So. This is the reason why you have accused me and my family of treason." Her smile widened when she saw Draco's smug face waver. "Do your faithful soldiers know yet, Draco? About the truth?"

This time Draco's smirk faded and turned into a scowl. He glanced quickly at General Goyle and his men, who had stirred at Ginny's words. "Leave us," he ordered calmly, waving a hand at them, his eyes never leaving Ginny's.

"But your Highness--"

"Now, General Goyle," Draco commanded coldly. "I am quite able to handle two defenseless women on my own." Goyle looked as if ready to argue, but he only bowed his head and left with his soldiers, directing a hard glare at Ginny and Hermione as he went past the door, which he closed behind him.

Ginny's smile never left her face. Instead she raised her eyebrow at Draco in slight surprise. "So you have not told them, have you?" she sneered at him. "You will never be the real king of Atalanta unless you wield the Sword of Fire!" she laughed coldly. "Until then you will always be a weak, spineless man hiding behind your father's shadow and wearing a crown of lies."

Draco abruptly advanced on her so quickly that Ginny had no time to dodge the hand that slapped her face. The force of the blow made her ears ring, and she could feel her cheek grow numb before throbbing in pain. Tears sprung behind her eyes as she turned to face Draco with as much hate as she could muster.

Hermione gasped as she saw Ginny thrown aside by the slap. But before she could run to her aid, Draco had his wand out and pointing at Hermione.

"_Stupefy!_" Hermione crumpled on the cold flagstone floor with a loud thud.

Draco only spared Hermione a glance before he returned his attention to Ginny, who was already nursing her throbbing cheek with one hand while glaring daggers at him. He lowered his wand and knelt in front of Ginny, his face unreadable as he lifted her chin in one hand.

"I am the king of Atalanta," he said in a calm tone, his gray eyes boring into hers. "And I am also your husband. I cannot bear to see you suffering like this, queen wife." He dropped his grip on her chin and instead grabbed her hands. "Tell me where the Order of the Phoenix is hiding Albus Dumbledore, Ginevra. He is the only one who knows where the Sword of Fire is. Once I claim the Sword as mine, we can rule Atalanta more strongly than ever. Together."

Ginny gritted her teeth to keep from crying in pain. She held onto her anger, knowing that if she let it go she would slip into fear, and Ginny knew that once there she might never be freed of it. Instead she kept her voice as hard as before. "Release my hands, Draco."

"What hope is there for you if you keep being so stubborn, woman? I am offering you a second chance."

"Release my hands."

Draco frowned at Ginny, his voice hardening. "Your family's safety lies in your answer."

This time Ginny could not hold back a gasp, and her anger melted momentarily. "What have you done with them?" she demanded, her eyes widening.

Draco smiled inwardly at the sudden change. His wife had always been strong and proud, but one small hint of danger to her family and she becomes malleable enough to manipulate in the way he wanted to. "They are safe, for the moment. Your father has been returned to his estates."

"And my brothers?"

Draco gave her a serene smile. "They are alive, or so my informants tell me. They have not yet heard what has happened. Perhaps in a week or so, when I have dispatched messengers to every city, town, and village all over Atalanta about your trial that will take place in a fortnight."

A tear fell from Ginny's cheek, but she did not move. Draco took a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and gently wiped her tear away. "Just tell me where he is, queen wife," he asked softly, his hand brushing her cheek, "and all would be well again."

Ginny looked at Draco, her face unreadable. Her eyes brimmed with tears, yet they reflected such smoldering anger and hatred that Draco almost drew back. But he held onto her hands, waiting for her response.

Finally Ginny turned her head away. "I ceased being your wife the moment you laid a hand on my father." Her voice shook, but she did not falter. "Albus Dumbledore is dead, Draco, and even if he were alive I do not know where he hides himself."

Draco dropped her hands and stood up. "You are lying."

Ginny turned her head, eyes flashing at Draco. "Would I tell you a lie Draco, when my family's safety is in your evil hands? I may no longer wear the Crown of Truth, but I speak no word that is not true," she said fiercely. A wave of anger caused her to add, "I am not a treacherous snake like you."

Draco's eyes widened slightly before he closed them, a smile on his lips. When he looked at Ginny, they were cold and ruthless again. "I will know soon enough if you are lying to me," he said in a cold tone as he stood and walked to the door. "Prince Ronald had last been seen traveling to an old friend's estate south of Lalaine's Crest. To attend a hunting party." He paused to let the words sink in. "I'm afraid we will soon be receiving word of an accident that will cause his untimely death."

Ginny's eyes widened, her breath stuck in her throat. "You...you cannot possibly..."

Draco raised one eyebrow at her. "Can't I, Ginevra? You said so yourself; I am a treacherous snake." He closed the door behind him softly.

Ginny collapsed on the pallet, leaning against the cold wall for support. She suddenly felt tired, as if talking with Draco had spent all of her energy. When she was sure she could stand she heaved Hermione onto the pallet and took the note under the bed, reading it again to make sure there was no mistake. Draco's veiled threat sent a shiver down her spine, but the note had provided her some comfort.

_The sixth eagle has taken flight to hunt a blacksmith. Two hunters ride with him, but eyes are following. Truth must hold steadfastly._

The handwriting was her mother's, Ginny was sure. She read the note again. So Ron had gone to search for someone, and he knows that Draco's agents are following him. Two of them; but the note said that Ron was safe for the moment. _Truth must hold steadfastly._ She must be patient, and wait. But who was the blacksmith?

Tearing a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress, Ginny poured water on it and wiped Hermione's face. The Stunning Spell had made her lost consciousness, but she would be alright. Ginny frowned and bit her lip to keep herself from crying. Hermione had nothing to do with this, she said bitterly to herself. And yet she suffers with me.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ginny said sadly as she wiped the cloth on the young woman's forehead. "We will get out of here, soon, I promise." She took a deep breath and firmed her tone. "Truth will hold steadfastly. It will." She lowered her head, letting silent tears fall.

"It has to."

o0o0o0o

Harry squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as he waited for someone to speak first. Mrs. Longbottom had led them to the only private room in the inn, furnished modestly with a large blue and yellow carpet on the wooden floor and a large oak long table with several hardback chairs with small cushions. A stone fireplace kept the room comfortable warm, and a small collection of books were stacked neatly in an overhanging shelf. A narrow vase of spring flowers was the only other decoration sitting above the mantelpiece.

It was Master Albus who had broken the silence. "Ah, this is indeed wonderful, Mrs. Longbottom. I have missed your beef stew during the long winter months." He gestured appreciatively at the food on the table, thanking the innkeeper for her troubles. Mrs. Longbottom smiled proudly in her seat.

"You must forgive me if the food is not as rich as I'd want it, but the spring harvest won't be for another week or so."

"This is more than enough," Ron cut in, smiling gratefully. Harry was surprised to actually see Mrs. Longbottom flush. Neville was goggling at his grandmother. "Thank you for your hospitality." He turned to the blacksmith. "Master Dumbledore..."

The blacksmith nodded in understanding, but he gestured a hand towards Harry. "I know there is something we must discuss, but I believe Harry has something to say." He looked expectantly at Harry with a smile. The others directed their gazes to him. "Well, my boy, what is it?"

"Er..." Harry flushed slightly at the attention, and kept his gaze at Master Albus's beard. "I just wanted to ask...why am I here?" Neville gestured frantically to him, and Harry quickly added, "And Neville, too. Why are _we_ here?"

"Before I answer that question, Harry, let us start on the delicious dinner Mrs. Longbottom had been kind enough to serve us." He proceeded to take a large serving of mashed potatoes from the nearest bowl and served himself with ale. He smiled at all of them. "Well then, go on. It's not right to let the food go cold."

Everyone stirred at this and followed his example. Harry took only small servings of everything and drank little, waiting for the blacksmith to answer his question. He had several others at the back of his tongue, but Harry wisely kept his mouth shut, waiting patiently. He glanced at Neville, who merely shrugged at him and started eating a bowl of stew. The prince, Harry saw with surprise, took large helpings of everything and was eating with gusto. Mrs. Longbottom was content to sip tea from her cup.

After a few moments Master Albus took a swig of ale to clear his throat and looked at Harry. "You and Neville are here," he began, "because you have been involved in the Order of the Phoenix as soon as you were both born. Both of your parents are members of the Order, and as soon as the king knows about your identities, they would know you as members as well."

Confused, Harry asked, "The Order of the what?"

"Order of the Phoenix," Ron answered around his mouthful of food. He swallowed loudly before continuing. "We're an underground alliance of people who are against the rule of the king."

This time Neville spoke up. "And my parents are involved in this?" he asked in a disbelieving tone.

Albus Dumbledore nodded. "Quite right, Neville. Although sadly, Frank and Alice have been held captive for twelve years now." He looked straight at Neville. "Your parents are alive."

Neville looked thoroughly shocked, and he did not move from his chair. He stirred when his grandmother laid a hand on his shoulder, smiling sadly at him. "It's true," she said softly. "They were fleeing a band of soldiers when they gave me to you. I thought they would escape, but they were caught in an ambush."

"They are being held captive in the dungeons under the castle," Dumbledore added. His face was sad. "I know you ought to have been told of this before, Neville, but you must understand the importance of keeping this secret. We did not know what you would do if you found out." He paused. "We were afraid you would go to Meg Shoade straight away to rescue them, and give away our location in the process."

Neville nodded, his face unreadable. Finally he said, "How did you know they are still alive?"

"I have seen them," Ron answered, looking at Neville. "They are in the dungeons, just as Master Dumbledore said."

"Why do you keep calling him Master Dumbledore?" Harry asked suddenly. He did not like not knowing what was going on, which obviously concerned all of them. He turned towards the blacksmith. "Who are you to him?"

"I am Albus the blacksmith, "Master Albus replied calmly, looking straight into Harry's eyes. "But before I took up the hammer, I was known as Master Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, High Wizard and adviser to the last true king of Atalanta, King James Potter."

"What?!"

"I am a wizard, Harry, and if I do say so myself, I am quite good at it," Dumbledore said with a soft smile. "I fled the capital twelve years ago with Frank and Alice Longbottom, carrying you with me, to hide from the claws of Lucius Malfoy, who had appointed himself King Regent when he accused King James and his queen Lily of high treason. He said they were traitors to the kingdom, in league with the Dark Wizard Voldemort, who had caused the Blood War twenty years ago."

"And..." Harry closed his fists tightly under the table, bracing himself. "and my parents?"

Dumbledore studied Harry's face for a moment, the twinkle in his eyes dimming. "Five years before my self-imposed exile, Queen Lily bore a son." Everyone fell silent and listened to his words. Ron stopped eating and looked at him.

"That means..." His eyes widened. "That means Draco Malfoy's coronation is not valid. King James had an heir to the throne!"

"Yes and no," Dumbledore replied. He looked at Harry again. "They baptized the child in the Temple of Hagel to the north, and I was the one who tested him for magic. King James and his wife named him Harry James Potter." He gestured towards his apprentice. "That is you, Harry. However, you are not the true king. Only one who wields the Sword of Fire can be hailed as the king of Atalanta, as the woman who bears the Crown of Truth is the queen." Everyone started asking him questions all at once, except for one.

Harry could barely hear the blacksmith's next words as the meaning of what he said sank into him. He was the son of a _king_? "How?" he asked aloud, and everyone stopped, looking at him. Harry turned to Master Albus--no, Master Dumbledore. "How can I be the son of...of...I'm only a blacksmith's apprentice!"

Dumbledore stood up and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Look," he said. He took a wand from his coat and waved it in front of Harry. Two faces suddenly appeared in thin air, hovering a few inches from the table. One picture had the face of a man in his thirties, with black hair growing every which way, and dark eyes glittering as he smiled. There was a gold coronet on his head. The other picture was of a woman with soft, long hair and startling green eyes, wearing a crown of gold and silver wire with diamonds and pearls. Two small swords made of beaten gold adorned the crown, directly above her temples. Her smile tugged at Harry's memory.

"They are your parents," Dumbledore said calmly, watching Harry's reaction.

Suddenly, Neville said, "Harry! You look just like--"

"Just like the king," Ron continued for him, nodding towards the hovering pictures. "But he has Queen Lily's eyes."

_I do, don't I?_ Harry stared hard at their pictures. His hair grew exactly the way the king did, and his eyes were a deep green, like the queen's. From his memory he remembered the soft scent of roses, and a rich, man's laugh. His parents. The king and queen. Now dead.

"I am sorry, Harry." Dumbledore's voice took Harry out of his thoughts, and he was surprised to see the wizard look so forlorn. "They were my dearest friends, and yet I could not protect them."

Harry shook his head. There was time enough for that later. "You've taken care of me ever since I was a child, Master Dumbledore. I am forever in your debt for that."

"As I am forever in your parents' debt for saving my life as well as yours." Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder and returned to his seat.

"Uh, I hate to cut in," Ron interrupted, "but can we go back to the issue at hand?" He waited until he had everyone's attention. His face suddenly turned serious. "I came here on word that a blacksmith who calls himself Albus has taken up residence in a town south of the Black Lake." He looked at Dumbledore. "And now that I have found him--and proved him to be Master Dumbledore--I must tell you urgent news." He took a deep breath. "My sister and my father had been accused of treason to the kingdom for plotting against the king. Draco Malfoy has stripped her of her crown and title, and imprisoned her." A scowl formed on his face. "My father was beaten half to death."

There was silence as the news hit home. Harry silently admired Ron for being able to remain as calm as he was when he arrived; he wasn't so sure he'd be able to handle something like this himself. The innkeeper sighed. "What is this kingdom coming to?"

"Please," Ron's voice was hard, but pleading. He looked at Dumbledore. "My entire family is in danger. If Malfoy follows the law, he will hold my sister and my father's trial a fortnight from now, before he leads them to the gallows." His hand shook in anger, but he let them stay at his sides. "The only way to stop him is if we find the Sword of Fire before he does."

Dumbledore's eyebrows turned down into a frown. "He is looking for the Sword?" he asked in a sharp voice.

Ron nodded disconsolately. "He has found the place where the Potters had hidden themselves before the civil war. He had an entire section of the Felwood Forest burned just to get there."

"Hmm." Dumbledore stared at his plate in thought. "This proves to be a problem. Titania and her people are in danger."

Ron looked worried. "Then has Malfoy found the place where the Sword is hidden?"

"No, he has not. Nor does he have the real Crown of Truth."

"But my sister--"

She wore a crown that was an exact imitation of the real one," Dumbledore continued. "Both the crowns she and Draco Malfoy wore were forged by human hands. The Crown of Truth Malfoy holds has been placed with spells and enchantments far weaker than the real one has." He waved a hand in the air. "It holds magic that will look like mere tricks beside the real thing. The Crown--the true Crown--will appear when the wielder of the Sword acknowledges his destiny as king."

Harry looked at Ron. The prince's face wore a harried expression, and his shoulders were slumped as he leaned back on his chair. Harry turned to Dumbledore. "Where is the Sword of Fire, then?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers in front of him. "Though mountains crumble and memory fade, the heart of courage will carve a path through shadow and rebuild what was unmade," he said calmly in a rote voice.

Neville frowned. "What does it mean?"

"It means only the one brave enough to face the Trial of the Sword must know where the Sword of Fire is, and so wield its power," Dumbledore answered. "I cannot tell it to anyone else, otherwise."

"But who?" Harry asked.

"That, my apprentice, is what we have to find out."#


	6. Flight from Ellis

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names, places, and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are owned by the author of this story._

_Author's Notes: As promised, I am uploading this with chapter 7. Enjoy reading, and please do not forget to review afterwards! I'm giving out cookies to everyone who reviews. (read: shameless attempt to bribe for reviews)_

**6**

**Flight from Ellis**

The little farming village of Coal Road cannot be properly called a village at all; it was more a small cluster of houses, one little inn, and a Friaran temple a little ways from Coal Road, on a small hill to the north. Even the temple was small and modest, compared to other temples in other villages and cities.

It was this Friaran temple that had caught Remus Lupin's eye. He walked towards it, knowing that wherever a Friaran temple was, people would surely be. He quickened his pace to a trot and held his walking staff a little straighter, ignoring the pangs of hunger stinging his stomach.

He was a little disappointed when he found Coal Road village. It was small and placid, compared to the other villages he had been through. Coal Road, if he remembered correctly, was a village smack in the middle of the road that led to the coal mines in the southern tip of the Black Spear Mountains, near C'Girod Valley. It should have been larger, or at least more populated by people, being close to a trading road.

Looking around, Remus caught sight of what he supposed was the innkeeper, wearing the usual large white apron and sweeping his front door with a somewhat beaten broom. He fixed a smile on his face and bowed his head. "Greetings, master innkeeper; would you happen to know the village Healer's house?"

The innkeeper, a large, rotund man with a dark thin moustache, narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Your purpose, sir?"

"I am a Healer myself, you see, and I am currently looking for a place to stay—and to work, as it happens." Remus kept his voice light and his face mildly happy. It was easy enough; he had done this a dozen times before.

The innkeeper grunted. "Healer Padma's not here. Gone over to Ember Town to help her sister heal the lot over there. 'Been about a week now."

Remus looked quite disappointed. He sighed. "I see."

The innkeeper looked closely at Remus. He took in the tattered and dusty cloak, the travel-worn clothes, and the haggard but kindly face. Clearing his throat, he asked in a too-light manner, "You've…uh, been through rough times?"

Remus nodded disconsolately. "I work as a traveling Healer, master innkeeper. You know, Healing as I travel, and learning much from other Healers. I collect rare medicines, too, and sell them when the opportunity presents itself." He sighed again and shook his head. "But lately work is hard to find, and the Healers in the other two villages I passed in going south were gone. To Ember Town." He looked up, and sure enough the innkeeper was listening attentively, although poorly hiding it by pretending to sweep.

"Ember Town, too, eh?" the innkeeper said. "Then you would know all about the attack there, I suppose." He stopped sweeping and lowered his voice. "Werewolves."

Remus felt his whole body tense at the word. He had not heard about this rumor before. As casually as he could, he replied, "Yes. Most unfortunate. But werewolves…?"

The innkeeper nodded fervently. "I heard it from three miners who stayed here three days ago. They were all nervous and tense-like, always looking behind them whenever they came down to eat. Never went out to look at the village. They left soon as they got some sleep. Was talking about werewolves in Ember Town, they was." He gave a shudder. "Then Healer Padma went over there soon as she got word from her sister. Didn't even leave a word, only saying she's gone to help Healer Parvati."

"And Healer Parvati is in Ember Town?"

The innkeeper nodded again. "She's been gone days now, and the village _needs_ her."

Remus smiled at this. "Well, man, you need a Healer, and I need a place to stay." He looked up at the sky. The moon was halfway to its full. "For a few days, at least, before I move on."

The innkeeper looked uncertain. "And how much would your services cost, err…"

"Healer Remus Lupin," Remus answered. "And my services cost no more than a warm bed and hot food during my stay. And a vacant hut or house far from the village, where I can Heal people and do my potions in peace."

"Just that?"

Remus nodded, allowing another smile. He should be charging them a higher price, of course—much higher, considering his position—but circumstances being as they were, he was grateful enough if they only agreed to give him the food. He could go camp somewhere, anyway. He supposed it would be better if he _did_ go camp out somewhere, miles from here. The moon would be full in a week, and soon he'd have to go away. For the village's sake as well as his.

o0o0o0o

Harry bit back a groan as he eased himself out of the saddle. They had been traveling for four days now, following the hard-packed dirt road that cut across rolling hills and flat plains. Master Dumbledore told Harry yesterday that the road will eventually lead to a small forest, and sure enough they spotted it ahead of them this morning. Traveling was all fine and good to Harry, but sitting on a saddle for hours had made him less than impartial on the subject.

Harry watched as the others began preparations to set up camp. Neville was leading Wind and his own mare Shrub a little ways from the group to brush them down. Master Dumbledore was settling his worn-down cloak around him to ward off the early evening chill while starting a fire. The prince sat in a brooding mood across the fire from Dumbledore, his chestnut brown stallion Flare apparently forgotten.

Prince Ronald had been like this ever since that night, when Master Dumbledore decided that they set out to find the person destined to wield the Sword of Fire. "The Wielder," Master Dumbledore explained, "must be found before anything else."

"But Ginny's still in danger!" Ron protested. "We can't just leave her locked up like some criminal."

"Your sister will remain safe," Dumbledore answered. He explained everything quite calmly. "Draco and his father will not kill your sister, as long as the real Sword is not found. He knows what the consequences will be if the Queen is killed." He looked firmly at them. "Queen Ginevra is what ensures the other Houses' cooperation, and the continued inactivity of the Order."

Harry watched the torn expression on the prince's face. He felt a pang of sympathy for him; knowing that his sister must be suffering, yet do nothing to rescue her, made his position difficult. Harry half-suspected that Prince Ron would go and save his sister by himself, if they did not know that two hunters had been sent to trail after him.

The prince's silence seemed to satisfy Dumbledore. He said, "Now that we've made things clear, we need to discuss the subject of those men who're after you." He stood up from his chair and began pacing the length of the room. Everyone's eyes followed except Mrs. Longbottom's; she was already out of the room by that time, saying she needed to take care of her patrons outside.

The prince sighed. "Both human," he said in a defeated voice. "I checked with Sensing Spells while riding out of Meg Shoade. Wizards, too, I expect, because they didn't even get lost in the Disillusionment Charm I placed on my tracks."

Master Dumbledore took it all in with slight nods, pacing all the while. Harry was quite stumped at this point. How could they be _not_ human? Surely Prince Ron isn't saying that creatures like werewolves exist?

The old blacksmith saw Harry's mild confusion and stopped. "Old age makes for poor memory," he mumbled to himself. He cleared his throat. "I seem to have forgotten to tell you, Ronald, but Harry and Neville have never stepped foot outside of Ellis before." He gave the prince a meaningful look. "Ellis is more a Muggle village than anything."

There were a few moments of silence. Then the prince burst out, "What?! But you're a _wizard_, Master Dumbledore! Advisor to King James! How could they not know magic?" He saw Harry's blank face. "How could Harry Potter not know? He's your apprentice, isn't he?"

"Up until now I was a blacksmith's apprentice," Harry said, rather irritated. The prince did not need to state the obvious that he, Harry, knew not a whit of magic. Knowing it for yourself was bad enough. Having others know the fact was embarrassing when the 'other people' were wizards.

Prince Ronald waived Harry's words away, unable to sense his irritation. "That's not the point, though; you were living with the kingdom's most powerful wizard, and yet you—"

"Enough." Master Dumbledore's voice was soft, but it cut through the prince's words like a sharp knife. He waited for Prince Ronald to settle down before he continued. "Harry does not know anything about magic, because I chose to stop using magic once I went into hiding. I took the job of hiding quite seriously, and I've never used magic until very recently." He gave Harry a silent, apologetic look. Harry could feel his face go warm, but he managed to nod before looking away.

The prince did not seem quite convinced. He turned to Neville. "And you?"

Neville's cheeks went pink, but he looked at the prince firmly in the eye and said stoutly, "I've never used a spell in my life, but I passed the Testing."

Before Prince Ronald could say anything, Master Dumbledore cut him off again. "What we need to do," he began, looking directly at him, "is to plan our escape, not address the issue of my apprentice's lack of magical knowledge, or Neville's for that matter. There is time enough for that later."

"E-escape?" Neville repeated in a shaky voice. He looked pale.

Master Dumbledore nodded. The prince sat back in his chair glumly, his cheeks a slight tinge of pink splashed with freckles. It clashed horribly with his red hair.

"The people after the prince are a day's ride away from here, but with a little distraction we might have enough time to widen the distance and hide our tracks."

Harry was interested. "What distractions, Master Dumbledore?"

"Oh, this and that," the blacksmith replied airily, his eyes twinkling at Harry. He smiled, and Harry was almost sure Master Dumbledore did _something_ just then; he felt something whoosh past him and out the chimney, like a sudden gust of warm wind. It made Harry feel mischievous, sly, and excited when it came past him.

"What was—?"

"Just a few spells I learned when I was young," Master Dumbledore answered, his smile turning into a grin. "I never thought they'd be quite useful; my mentors before often complained that it gets on their nerves." He clapped his hands together and looked at them enthusiastically. "And now to plan our escape."

The planning consisted mostly of writing down the things they needed, packing them into traveling bags and getting horses from Mrs. Longbottom's stable. Neville decided to go with them, and to his surprise his grandmother only gave him a proud smile before giving her consent.

"I knew you would, being my Frank's son," she said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "You be careful now. I expect you back here with your parents, hear?"

Neville was so shocked he could only nod. "I thought she'd gone mad," Neville told Harry later, when they were outside. "But I guess she just wants my Mum and Dad back just as bad as I do."

An hour later they were ready. Master Dumbledore had Mrs. Longbottom's favorite horse Wind, and Neville had his Shrub. The prince's horse impressed Harry. Flare was tall and well-muscled, a true pure-bred horse that nobles used. "He can be quite stubborn for a horse though," the prince admitted. "And he gets excited quite easily. Calm down, you stupid horse! Or you'll wake people up!" Flare had too much pent-up energy being cooped up in the stable after such a long time outdoors that he was frisking and whinnying. The prince finally managed to calm the horse down when he threatened to cut back his share on the oats.

Harry's horse was Mrs. Longbottom's other stallion, Treader. Treader was a white-gray horse with a sturdy build. He was shorter and less grand than Flare—mush like the dappled brown Shrub—but he wouldn't tire so easily, Mrs. Longbottom assured Harry. "He'd be able to keep pace with the other horses, don't worry," she said as she stroked Treader's neck.

With Harry's traveling pack tied behind the saddle and a few other provisions, he was ready. The others seemed ready, too. Prince Ronald hid himself under the long, travel-worn cloak again, although he kept his head bare. There was just one person missing. "Where's Master Dumbledore?" Harry asked no one in particular.

The blacksmith/wizard stepped out of the inn's front door, holding a rather small sack of belongings. In the other hand he was holding a long package wrapped in cloth. He took off the cloth to reveal a deep brown scabbard, with the hilt of a sword sticking out one end, made of sleek black leather and gold wire. The cross guard was made of more gold and silver, engraved with lions and griffins. He handed the sword to Harry. "I finished it just in time," he said, and went to tie the sack on Wind.

Harry looked down at the sword and slowly pulled it out of its scabbard. It gave out a high, hollow ringing sound as he took it out. He almost did not recognize the blade he had forged himself. The blade was as long as his arm, the edges gleaming dull silver in the moonlight. Harry swung it down in one hand. It was well-balanced. The sword grew warm in his hands, almost as if humming with life.

"Is that your sword?" Neville asked, making Harry jump. He had not noticed his coming.

"No." Harry put the sword back in its scabbard and handed it to Neville with a grin. "It's your birthday gift. I forged the blade, but Master Al—I mean Master Dumbledore, fitted the handle."

"Mine?" Neville sounded disbelieving, but he took the sword just the same. "It's…it's bloody great, Harry. But are you sure? I mean, you made it—"

"as a birthday gift for my friend," Harry finished for him. He put the sword firmly in Neville's hand. With a grin, he added, "So now you don't have to worry about finding a sword when you become a page."

Neville scowled. "Very funny, Harry. I knew there was a catch in there somewhere."

"Everyone ready?" The innkeeper walked out into the night, holding a lamp and a thin cloak over her shoulders. She handed Harry a bag. "There's some more bread and cheese there, as well as some of my apple pie. Extra food, in case you get hungry." She smiled at Harry and patted his cheek fondly. "Be careful, my boy. Prince or not, you're always welcome in my inn."

"I will. And thank you." Harry smiled back, touched by Mrs. Longbottom's kindness.

She also gave her grandson a bag. "Neville, I know you get hungry quicker than Harry, so I packed you two more apple pies and an extra loaf…"

Harry saw Neville's face flush a deep red in the lamplight. "Gran…" he groaned. The prince sniggered into his cloak, and Neville shot him a nasty look.

The old woman continued as if she did not hear. She was now arranging the collar of Neville's shirt with her hands and fixing his hair that did not need fixing. Tears brimmed under her eyes. "…and you mustn't tire yourself so much, hear? And…and please, _please_ be careful." She sniffed. Neville looked alarmed at finding his grandmother so upset. Both Harry and the prince pulled their horses away and busied themselves with re-adjusting straps and tying knots.

After a few moments Neville joined them. Harry pointedly ignored the fact that Neville's eyes were teary and red, and his nose quite pink. He gave Neville a smile, which his friend returned in kind. They watched Mrs. Longbottom approach the prince and handed him a bag of food even bigger than Harry's or Neville's. The prince blushed a furious red while thanking the innkeeper, much to Harry and Neville's satisfaction.

"I think now we are ready," said Dumbledore, and they sped into the night, out of Ellis, with Mrs. Longbottom waving at them from behind.

The sky was clear and the night cool, making their travel by moonlight enjoyable. Harry did not often ride horses, but he enjoyed it immensely. He let Treader pick his own pace, grinning when he saw Neville on Shrub. Neville had been telling the truth when he said he was not a good rider; he was thrown in every direction like a sack of potatoes, muttering under his breath. Master Dumbledore and the prince looked as if they were born on a horse. Harry could not help feeling a twinge of envy.

They rode northwest with Dumbledore in the lead, the prince, Harry, and Neville trailing after him. They followed the main road, past small villages and sleeping towns, stopping only to rest the horses and give them something to drink. After what seemed like hours even Harry was muttering under his breath; his legs felt weary and cramped, and his eyes were heavy. Neville was struggling to keep awake. Only the wizard and the prince did not look tired.

When the moon was way past its zenith, Dumbledore decided to call it a night. They turned right, away from the road, and went into a thick cluster of trees.

"Be careful," Master Dumbledore warned in a soft voice. "The ground slopes downward here." He took out his wand and muttered, "_Lumos_." The tip flared into brightness, and the shadows shrank back to reveal the ground. The prince took out his own wand.

"_Lumos_. Much better," the prince said and looked behind. "What are you two waiting for?"

Harry and Neville were staring at them. Harry was the first to recover. "We've never seen proper magic like that before," he admitted, slightly embarrassed. "Was that a spell?"

"Yes, and you'll be seeing more of it from this point on," Master Dumbledore answered. He led them into the clearing below the slope, where he tied Wind to a nearby tree. The dip in the ground provided a safe campsite, hidden from the road. The prince taught Neville how to light a fire without much smoke, so it would not give away their position.

"But I thought those after you are still a day away, your Highness," Harry said as he settled down to boil water for tea.

Prince Ronald shrugged. "They are, but that doesn't mean there's nobody else searching. The Order doesn't keep tabs on all Malfoy's henchmen. And stop calling me 'your highness'; that'll catch people's attention if you're not careful. Call me Ron."

"O-okay."

"Ah." Master Dumbledore sat down in front of the fire and warmed his hands. "We can sleep peacefully for a few hours, at least, before we head off again. I've set up a Warning Charm all around this place."

"Um, Master Dumbledore, why are we going to Lalaine's Crest?" Neville asked. "Is the Wielder there?"

"Maybe," Master Dumbledore answered. "If we are lucky enough to encounter him there. But the main purpose of our going is to get both you and Harry your own wands."

"Can't that wait until after we find the Wielder of the Sword?" the prince asked, his tone tight. Harry could see the stubborn anger simmering in his face.

But the wizard did not change his mind. "I'm sorry, Ronald, but that isn't how things work. We will find the Wielder when he chooses to reveal himself. In the meantime I wish to fix something which we _can_ work on: Harry and Neville's magical training." Master Dumbledore took out a folded map in his pockets and laid it out on the ground. Harry and Neville leaned closer for a look. Ron only huffed and turned away, poking the flames with a stick.

"We are here," the wizard pointed to a place in the map only a thumb's width away from Ellis. "After another three days of hard riding we'll be able to arrive at Brindle Woods; the road cuts straight through it, so we have no need to fear getting lost. And after the forest…" Master Dumbledore remained silent for a few moments. "About two week's ride to Lalaine's Crest. That is, if we encounter no trouble at all, the weather is fair, and owls are not shot on sight."

"The owls?" Harry asked nonplussed.

"Oh, I heard about those!" Neville exclaimed. "Gran says wizards use Owl Post to send each other messages."

"Among other things." Master Dumbledore nodded. "I need to send a few letters to people while on our journey. But I need to be very careful about it, or else they might be intercepted."

Harry was still trying to figure out how owls could send people messages—weren't they nocturnal?—when Neville asked another question. "How do we get wands?"

"That wouldn't be too difficult a task, I think," the wizard replied. "We only need to go to Ollivander's. I can't think of anywhere else to buy, otherwise. And I can't trust myself to make your wands myself; I bought mine at Ollivander's."

While they were eating the apple pie Mrs. Longbottom had packed for them, Harry decided to ask the one thing that was bothering him most at the moment. "Er, Master Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Uh, shouldn't I be…I mean, to be a proper wizard, I have to be Tested too, right? Like Neville?"

"Normally, yes, but I was there when you were born and named, Harry, and believe me, there is no need for you to be Tested."

"Really?"

"Really." Master Dumbledore gave him a reassuring smile. Harry left it at that, although he still doubted whether he had any magic in him or not. But during the next three days he did not bring up the subject again, because they were now too tired to talk much when they camped, or Dumbledore kept him and Neville busy with memorizing incantations and wand gestures. Sometimes he made Ron do the incantations and gestures, too, but only when he was teaching Harry and Neville the more difficult spells.

And Ron continued being moody and glum. He stayed behind the group now, glaring at Dumbledore's back, or when Harry and Neville asked a question, he glowered at them and answered in a short, clipped tone. As a result, idle conversations dwindled around Ron, and only Harry and Neville talked with themselves. Master Dumbledore was always at the front of the party, scouting ahead or plotting their path, and was often too busy to notice Ron's attitude.

During the fourth day of their travel, with the Brindle Woods ahead of them, Harry led both his horse and Flare towards where Neville was brushing down Shrub and Wind. "He's still sulky," Harry pointed out in a soft voice. "I wonder when he'll snap out of it."

Neville snorted, which made Shrub jump up slightly in surprise. "He's acting like a spoiled prince. I don't understand why he can't see that the only way to save Queen Ginevra is to look for the Wielder first."

Harry shrugged. As he took off Treader's saddle, he said, "I dunno. If it was me, I'd be worried about my own sister more than a person destined to have a magical sword."

"Yeah, but he's a prince. He's supposed to know better than sulk."

Harry looked over Treader's back, to where Ron was now sitting, moodily staring at the fire. Neville had a point; but still…

Suddenly a wolf howled into the night, making the horses whicker and whinny in fear. Neville and Harry struggled to keep them calm as another wolf howled. The sound made the skin on Harry's arm shiver. While he stroked Flare's neck, Dumbledore rushed towards them, flinging the saddle onto Wind's back.

"We ride!" he ordered, quickly doing the straps. "Quickly now, Harry! Neville, you put out the fire."

Harry obeyed without question, sensing the urgency in the old wizard's tone. Ron was running towards them, now, with all their bags in his shoulder. He dumped everything on the ground and began saddling his horse. Neville hurried to do everything.

When they were all saddled and galloping away, Harry quickened Treader's pace to catch up with Master Dumbledore. "What's happening?" he shouted against the wind.

Master Dumbledore looked at Harry with an expression that made Harry cold. "The werewolves have caught our scent." #


	7. The Mercenary and the Healer

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names, places, and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot and writing style are owned by the author of this story._

_Author's Notes: Since two chapters have been uploaded at the same time, I am asking for your kind consideration in waiting for chapter 8. My other stories need my attention, too. Please be patient, and chapter 8 will be here. Again, I'm giving out cookies to the lovely people who will review!_

**7**

**The Mercenary and the Healer**

The thunder of hooves filled Harry's ears, dirt and bits of stone flying, as they sped down the road. The howl of werewolves urged them further, galloping straight into the Brindle Woods. A dark canopy of trees replaced the wide, star-filled sky, and it took a few moments for Harry's eyes to adjust to the darkness. Neville and Ron were only barely-outlined silhouettes on his right and back; he could not see Master Dumbledore at all ahead. Fear made him grip the reins tighter; he urged Treader on, not daring to look behind.

"They're coming closer!" the prince shouted from behind. Harry heard Neville's frightened gasp.

"Keep close to me," Master Dumbledore's voice sounded not far ahead. "We cannot afford to be separated." He took out his wand and it flared into brightness again.

Harry was alarmed. "But the light—!"

"No matter. Werewolves can see quite as well in the dark as in daytime," Master Dumbledore said. He was frowning at the path ahead. "There is no need to make it easier for them to follow us half-stumbling in the trees."

Ron came up from behind. He had his red bow in his hand, Flare's reins tied to the saddle. His freckles were bright against his pale face, but his eyes were hard. "Only half a pack; two on both sides with one following behind us on the road. There is no sign of wizards."

"I didn't expect any," Master Dumbledore said, with a hint of smile. Harry suddenly felt some sort of pity for whoever was following Prince Ron a few days ago.

"F-five? Did you say five?" Neville looked terrified. Shrub had felt his rider's fear, and whinnied nervously as he galloped, but Neville did not complain.

Fear turned Harry's insides to ice, but he battled to keep his face straight. He could not afford to loose his head now. He gritted his teeth in anger. He should have brought his own bow. Another howl pierced the night, much louder and closer than before. Harry thought he could see moving shadows on both sides of the road. The horses ran even faster, smelling the werewolves so close.

Master Dumbledore looked back at them. "Be ready!" he warned. "They are coming."

Neville almost whimpered in fright. But he nodded, his face very white, and pulled out the sword hanging from the scabbard on his hip. His knuckles turned even whiter as he gripped it in one hand.

"Here." The prince handed Harry the bow before passing on the quiver hanging on his back. "You know how to use that, don't you? Mind you don't waste too many arrows; it's damn hard to find excellent fletchers these days." He did not seem to have any difficulty passing them onto Harry while riding a horse; Harry had to concentrate hard on keeping his balance while strapping on the quiver.

"What about you?"

Ron gave Harry a wicked grin. He drew out his rapier. "I always did prefer close combat."

A snarling noise behind made Harry look back. His eyes widened at his first sight of a werewolf.

The moment Harry saw it, he knew that all the tales about them were true. The werewolf was neither human nor wolf; it was a horrid mix of both. It loped on all fours, keeping easy pace with the horses, just like a wolf, but it was larger and longer-limbed. Its entire body was covered with thick brown-gray fur, but it thinned out over its belly; its forearms ended in five clawed fingers. Its head was slightly elongated and ended in a snout; yellow fangs clear and dripping in the wand light. Yellow eyes glowed in semi-darkness.

When the werewolf saw Harry staring, Harry had the sickening feeling that it _grinned_ at him. The werewolf howled again and leaped towards them, and everything turned to chaos.

Two other werewolves, one on each side, attacked at the same time as the brown-gray one leaped up from behind. The horses, crazed and terrified, halted in their tracks and kicked furiously at the beasts, mouths frothing.

For one long moment Harry could think of nothing, except that five werewolves were about to tear the lot of them into pieces. And then the bow grew warm in his hands, and Harry moved without thinking.

He let loose an arrow at the werewolf leaping straight at Neville before he realized what he was doing. The arrow pierced the beast's belly, and it fell to the ground with a pained yelp. Neville was frozen to the saddle, the sword shaking in his hands as he watched Harry shoot another arrow, this time at the beast's neck. The werewolf took a shuddering breath and was still. Neville stared.

Harry's blood pounded in his ears and his hands moved mechanically, drawing another arrow to his cheek and letting loose, finding the next target. The warmth of the bow abated Harry's fear somewhat; he was now sure the bow was magical. It seemed to guide his hands, and Harry only had to watch.

Cold metal sliced fur and claw as Prince Ron lunged at the brown-gray werewolf. Ron let out a triumphant "Ha!" as he sliced the monster across the breast, and it fell down twitching, lying in a dark pool of its own blood. The prince leaned down on his saddle, poking the werewolf with his rapier to make sure it was dead, when Harry saw the third werewolf jump out of the darkness, aiming for Ron's exposed neck.

"Watch out!"

Ron looked up to see a snarling snout filled with teeth coming towards him at frightening speed. There was a whoosh, and three arrows struck the werewolf's breast, another arrow in its right eye. It fell dead with a thud. Ron turned his head to see Harry still poised with one arrow to the bow. His face was lined with sweat, his chest heaving.

A loud, wolfish scream made all three of them turn forward.

Master Dumbledore had his wand out, his arms outstretched. Two charred and smoking heaps lay before him. The smell of burning fur filled Harry's nostrils, and he almost gagged. Only his tight grip on the bow kept him from leaning over and throwing up.

They stayed still like that, frozen, waiting for another attack, when the loud clanging sound of a sword being dropped made them turn. Neville was looking down at his shaking hands, his face white and terrified. Shrub was prancing uneasily, smelling the scent of blood.

Master Dumbledore slowly let Wind trot towards Neville. "They are gone," he said in a gentle tone. "I do not think they have sent more than this to pursue us." He eased himself off of Wind. "There is a clearing nearby where we can rest."

Ron and Harry followed suit. They got off their horses and stowed away their weapons. Ron wiped the blood off his rapier on the fur of the werewolf that almost killed him. Harry considered retrieving the arrows, but Ron shook his head.

"I'll do it," the prince said. "You'd better check up on Neville, though. I think he's still in shock."

Harry nodded and hung the bow and quiver over Treader's saddle. He went up to Shrub and his rider. "Neville?"

Neville looked up sharply. He had a wild look in his eyes—filled with terror, Harry realized—but they softened when he recognized Harry. "Harry! I…I am sorry," he said in a lame tone, his face flushed. "I had a sword and I did nothing. I only stared at those…those things like an idiot. I…I'm useless." He looked terribly ashamed and on the verge of tears.

Harry tried to think of what to say. What Neville said was true, although Harry did not think it would be much help if he said so. He was saved further difficulties when Master Dumbledore walked up to them and said, "Come down form there, Neville lad, and help me build a fire."

Neville nodded wordlessly, and he came down from Shrub avoiding Harry's eyes. He stooped down and picked up the sword. For a second Harry thought Neville was going to return it to him; instead he placed it back on the scabbard at his hip, took Shrub by his reins, and led him to Dumbledore.

o0o0o0o

Juneil Albard, innkeeper of the Dusty Cloaks inn at Coal Road village, was a sensible man. He always insisted upon his wife that his aprons should be freshly-ironed and pressed for the day's work, because, as every sensible innkeeper knew, customers would not even turn their noses at an inn whose innkeeper looked shabby. The innkeeper reflects the inn, as his father would say, and Juneil agreed wholeheartedly.

Even more important than clean white aprons were respectable customers. Juneil allowed drinking in his common room, but he never allowed brawls or fist fights, or jeering, drunken customers pinching his serving ladies. This made his formidable girth a great advantage. What with his clean, white apron, large build, and dark, twirled mustache, Juneil Albard looked quite like a sensible, respectable innkeeper.

Master Albard immediately took pity on the Healer who had come to Coal Road a few days ago. In his opinion, Remus Lupin was an amiable fellow, good-natured, and in some ways shallow-minded and a fool. Master Albard liked him at once. He let Remus Lupin stay in the hut where Healer Padma used to heal the sick villagers, and he gave him enough food and even extra blankets from his inn.

Remus Lupin was an excellent Healer; he was always kind to the villagers, and he gave them fresh potions he makes everyday, reminding them when to take what and how much. Master Albard's daughter, who had been down with fever and chills when Healer Remus arrived, felt better after drinking his concoctions. This made Remus Lupin, in Master Albard's eyes, a sensible and respectable person.

Which was why it shocked Master Albard no end when a dark-haired, dirty, shabby, and dangerous looking man came looking for Remus Lupin six days later.

The man introduced himself as a mercenary by the name of Sirius Padfoot. He was a head taller than Master Albard. He wore dark colored clothes over a sewn leather jerkin with iron plating covering his left arm. His clothes and boots were dusty and mud-covered. His dark hair hung in dirty lumps over his head. Two stout swords were strapped crisscross on his back, the hilts showing above his cloak. There was a dagger on his waist. All in all he looked the kind of man Master Albard would last associate with the kindly, soft-spoken Healer.

"He knows me," the man said in a rough voice, grinning, when Master Albard politely asked if the Healer knew of his coming. The grin made him look like a dog ready to bite. "He hired me for something."

"Ah, I see." Master Albard wiped his face with his apron. He felt nervous, talking with this man. It feels as if he ought to know him, as if his face was familiar somehow. But he was more nervous of people seeing him talking with the man in front of the Dusty Cloaks. He might loose his clients.

When the innkeeper did not move, Sirius Padfoot shifted his weight on one foot and tapped his booted foot on the ground. "Should I shout for him to come out, then?"

"No! No, of course not," Master Albard said hastily, wringing his hands. "I will get him for you."

In a few moments Remus Lupin was walking astride the innkeeper around the bend, talking in low tones. When Remus saw the mercenary, he gave a laugh and heartily greeted the dangerous-looking mercenary with a hug.

"Sirius old friend! I knew you would make it!" Remus thumped the man on the back, grinning from ear to ear. "For a moment there I thought you had been lost."

The mercenary grinned. Master Albard felt like fainting. "Your map was a headache to read, Remus. I could have given it to a trader and told them it was a note of trade, and they would have believed me." He took out a small brown sack from inside his cloak and handed it to the Healer. "You'd have to down it in one go this time, else it won't have any effect."

The Healer, Master Albard noticed, became quite serious at once. His eyes became lowered and pensive, his face smooth and calculating. "I see," he said in a soft voice, taking the sack in his hands. "Very well. But didn't he give you two bottles?"

The mercenary shrugged. "Just one. He said it was all he bargained with you, and it's the last one."

Healer Remus sighed. "Oh alright. We have no other choice then, but to continue our search." He turned towards the innkeeper and smiled. "Master Albard, I am very grateful for the hospitality you and the people of Coal Road have given me. I'm quite sorry to tell you this, but my friend and I will leave this village as soon as we have had some of those kidney pies I have become rather fond of."

"Leave?" The mercenary repeated, quite surprised. "Right away? But where in Merlin's name are we going to find that old wizard?"

Master Albard was confused by this point, but he was by no means a rude person. "Excuse me," he interrupted, and both the mercenary and the Healer looked at him. He had to keep himself from wringing his hands again. "But if you are going to leave soon, then we must hurry on inside. My wife and I shall fix you some dinner before you go."

Remus obligingly followed the innkeeper inside. Sirius lagged behind, saying he had to tend to his horse before going in. The innkeeper was secretly grateful for this; he was only just recovering from the shock of finding Healer Remus with a friend like Sirius Padfoot, and thinking of being in the same room as the man made Master Albard nervous.

Mistress Albard grumpily quickened her cooking while Master Albard gave the Healer and the mercenary a mug of ale both. He wiped their table with his apron and bobbed his head, like an innkeeper always did when welcoming new customers. "We will serve you the kidney pie and some hot broth later on," he said.

"Mmm." The Healer was watching the door, waiting for the mercenary. Sensing that the Healer was worried about something, and considering that Remus Lupin was quite harmless, Master Albard inquired gently, "Healer Remus, who is this wizard you are looking for?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Master Albard wished he had not said them. For the Healer's eyes suddenly turned piercing and hard at him, sharp enough to make Master Albard freeze. "Why do you ask?" the Healer's tone was soft but cool. At that instant, Master Albard felt that he ought to have known who Remus Lupin was, too, just like the mercenary.

"Well…" Master Albard struggled to regain his composure. "Many travelers go through Coal Road, Healer Remus. Usually did anyway, before the attacks on Ember Town. But," he hurried on, seeing the Healer's eyebrow twitch, "I've heard a lot about where wizards ought to be living, seeing as I've been hearing those travelers tell each other the latest news and those sort. I thought that perhaps I could help you."

Healer Remus considered this a moment, his fingers drumming on the table surface. Master Albard had seen the rich wizard lords do this, while sitting on their dark mahogany tables, waiting for the people to pay their taxes or tell their petitions. But he did not say this out loud; he thought it might offend the Healer.

Then the Healer nodded his head and gestured toward a seat. Master Albard did not seem to realize that he had sighed at that point, and gratefully pulled himself a chair, as if it was the Healer who owned the inn and not himself. When he was properly seated, the Healer asked, "Have you heard of a wizard called Albus?"

Master Albard thought long and hard. Finally he shook his head. "The only Albus I've heard is the blacksmith in Ellis."

"A blacksmith…" Remus Lupin was silent again. Then he said, "And what about this blacksmith, Master Albard?"

"He's quite a talented blacksmith, or so I've heard. Quite mad too, if the stories are true; he doesn't just accept any job offered to him. I've heard tell that he turned down a job for a sack of galleons just because the lord who came looking for him hadn't greeted him a good morning!"

"Do you know what he looks like?"

"Well…" Master Albard tried to remember. "They say he's old, with long white hair and white beard that goes past his waist." He shrugged. "But I can't really believe that a man that old could carry a hammer and not break a bone or two."

"We're ready," came a gruff voice from behind, and Master Albard jumped out of his seat in surprise. It was the mercenary, and he was setting down a large bag of things Master Albard recognized as the Healer's. He was carrying the Healer's walking staff, too.

"How did you know where the Healer's house was?" Master Albard asked before he could stop himself.

Sirius Padfoot looked strangely at the innkeeper, as if he asked something that was quite obvious. "I followed your tracks," was all he said, and settled down beside Remus Lupin. Once there, Master Albard felt he was no longer needed, and politely backed away and hurried to prepare their meal. While working, he continuously caught glimpses of the Healer and the mercenary talking together in low, hushed voices. He had no idea if what he said had been any help, or where they planned to go.

After their meal Master Albard went to see them off. The Healer had no horse of his own, so he rode behind the mercenary. While the Healer was adjusting his cloak over the saddle and the mercenary was checking the straps on his horse, Master Alberd gasped. The Healer and the mercenary both stopped and looked at him.

Juneil Albard went cold, first with shock, and then fear. He recognized them now.

A few years ago, Master Albard and his wife went to Meg Shoade to seek out the help of the wizards when they were in a pinch. They wanted to consult a Seer, to tell if Mistress Albard was going to have any children at all. Their searching eventually led them to a Seer whose shop overlooked the main road that led to the great Castle. During that time, there was a big parade, celebrating the joyous news that a Queen had been chosen.

Master Albard could still remember it clearly. Both he and his wife peered out the Seer's window on the second floor, to get a good view, and saw the King and his Queen riding at the front of the parade, horns and trumpets blazing. Everyone was cheering and waving laces and handkerchiefs.

And right behind the horses of the King and Queen rode the Captain of the Knights of the Golden Hand and Sword-General, along with the Royal Healer.

When Remus and Sirius saw the look of recognition on Master Albard's face, they knew. Remus sighed and shook his head. Sirius only grunted and stared hard at the innkeeper.

"You should not have tried to remember, Master Albard," he said casually, patting his horse's head. "It would have been better. But I think this is alright."

"What?" Master Albard was quite frightened by now, but his throat was too dry to speak. If news traveled about how he helped the convicted Sword-General and the ex-Royal Healer, he did not think the king would spare his wife and daughter. They would all be hanged. Immediately.

Remus slowly drew out his wand and sadly faced the innkeeper. "It was a pleasure knowing you, Master Albard," he said softly. With a quick gesture he pointed the wand at the innkeeper. "_Obliviate_."

By the time Remus Lupin and Sirius Black were miles away from Coal Road, Master Juneil Albard was only just waking up from a weird dream about ill-mannered tavern brawlers, wondering when Healer Padma would come now that the temporary Healer had gone, his recollection about the convicted Sword-General and the ex-Royal Healer completely forgotten. #


	8. Into Lalaine's Crest

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- A Harry Potter Fanfiction -

_Warnings and Disclaimers: All Harry Potter names and related indicia are copyright to JK Rowling. Only the plot, writing style, and elements in the story you don't recognize are intellectual properties of Moiraine Lendreth._

_Author's Notes: Please review after reading. And please read the announcement chapter after this. Please don't kill me afterwards. (sweat drop)_

**8**

**Into Lalaine's Crest**

It had been almost two weeks since they fled Ellis, and Harry was feeling homesick already. He missed the iron tang smells of the forge, its fires and the sounds of metal clashing on metal. He was also beginning to miss the town; he wondered how Mrs. Longbottom was doing now. He glanced behind him, where Neville was riding at the back of the group and looking determinedly straight ahead. Harry wondered how Neville was feeling right now.

About three days ago, with still no sign of any werewolf or any other pursuer, Master Dumbledore had decided it was safe to be traveling in daylight again. It had taken Harry a bit of time to adjust back to his regular sleeping pattern, but he managed it without too much difficulty. Traveling under the sun had abated Harry's fear of encountering another werewolf soon; it was hard to worry when the sun was warm against your cheek and the sky was a perfect blue overhead. What was worrying him, though, was Neville.

"Something wrong?" came the prince's voice. He pulled back to ride in step with Harry and Treader, Flare obediently slowing down to match the pace of Harry's horse with one flick of the reins. He felt a twinge of jealousy at the prince's ease of riding a horse, which quickly dissipated when Harry realized that it would have taken the prince a good part of his childhood training to become this good at riding, a time that Harry would not have had the privilege of having.

Harry gave a small shake of the head. "I was just thinking, your Highness. I mean, er, Ron."

"I see." There were a few moments of silence. "Well, if you're still worrying about Neville…" He shook his head and sighed. "He is still worrying about what happened in Brindle Woods."

Harry nodded sadly. "He won't talk about it, but I know he's still upset that he had not been able to do anything."

"He blames himself?"

Harry glanced back again. "Yes, I think so."

The prince snorted so suddenly that Harry was surprised. "He's an idiot if he thinks it's his fault the werewolves had almost eaten all of us. Those monsters are expert hunters; it would not have mattered an inch if we all had swords and bows in both hands. They would _still_ be able to ambush us like they did."

Harry agreed wholeheartedly, but the problem was getting Neville to see sense. He sighed disconsolately. Ever since the attack, Neville had avoided Harry and Ron, never speaking unless they directed a question at him, to which he would give short, monosyllabic answers before returning to his silent brooding. It put a heavier tension to the air than when Ron had been acting mulish; at least then Harry and Neville had their friendship to comfort each other with. And although Harry was fast becoming friends with the prince, it was different with Neville, because they had been friends since they learned how to walk.

"I'll talk some sense into him," Harry finally said resolutely. He would not stand having Neville travel with them like this.

The prince cast another glance behind them. He gave a noncommittal sound. "Yeah, I think you should. From the way he looks he just might resort to killing himself," he said in a light tone, not really serious.

They could see Dumbledore's tall figure on Wind coming back to their party after his usual scout of the area. Harry could not help think that the man looked more like a wizard than a blacksmith; his long white hair was flying behind him with the occasional gust of wind, the ends of his cloak flapping against Wind's flanks. Sadly, Harry realized that even if this adventure of searching for the next king of their kingdom would end, things would not return to normal. At the very least, Master Dumbledore would not go back to Ellis with him and Neville.

"We are nearly there," the wizard told them with a smile and a twinkle of his blue eyes. "The city is just beyond the next rise. We've made good time; I think we can even sleep under a roof tonight."

Ron sighed with relief. "Finally. And a decent meal to go with the bed, I hope."

Harry nodded absently in agreement, still feeling a bit down with Neville in mind. The wizard seemed to have noticed, because he tilted his head at Harry and asked, "Is there something wrong, Harry?"

"It's nothing, Master Dumbledore," he lied, managing a smile. It was an effort. "I'm just tired, that's all. And a bit hungry," he admitted.

Master Dumbledore did not say anything for a few moments. He studied Harry with his eyes half-hidden in his glasses. Harry wanted to squirm under his gaze, but managed to look straight ahead, between Treader's ears. The wizard also took one cursory glance at Neville riding a few paces behind them before he nodded. "Very well. When we get to the city, you must all remember to keep close to me. Ronald, put up your cowl and try not to get noticed. We cannot be sure we are safe until we are inside the city walls, and I'm afraid not very much safe even then."

These cryptic words made Harry tense. "Do you expect we'll be attacked inside?"

"Attacked? Heavens no; the city guards keep a dutiful watch over Lalaine's Crest at all hours. Anyone would be hard-put into sticking a knife in your back. No, Harry, I am talking about the Dark Lord's spies." He looked seriously at them. "One word about our whereabouts, and I am not so sure the queen's safety will be ensured much longer. Or ours, for that matter."

They continued riding in silence, Master Dumbledore giving them instructions. He explained that the city was built in a crescent shape on top of a low hill. Lalaine's Crest had three gates; the North, South, and East Gates. North Gate, which was furthest from their position, opened up to the trade roads into Hufflepuff region and the Black Spear Mountains that formed the northern boundary of Atalanta. South Gate, where they were going, led down into the port city Anorwé and the towns and villages of the Gryffindor region. South Gate was also the route coal merchants took, a roundabout path from the coal mines near C'Girod Valley, curving around south and going north and west to Ravenclaw region. Lalaine's Crest was their crossroads; most of the coal merchants took the East Gate as an exit, going straight to the capital. Others would venture north, into Hufflepuff region, where coal was considered a precious commodity; Hufflepuff region's climate was cooler than the rest of the kingdom.

Harry had already learned from past nightly consultations with Master Dumbledore and his map that Lalaine's Crest was a large city, although Anorwé was much larger, and the capital twice more than that. Harry could by now trace the path they had taken from memory; they had traveled roughly a straight line northwest for Lalaine's Crest from Ellis, bypassing several villages and towns.

If Harry remembered correctly, the first town they might have come across was Ember Town. He had recently begun teaching himself to memorize the map Master Dumbledore was showing him; it wasn't that he wanted to visit all those places, but you never knew when you won't have a map in handy.

The growling of his stomach interrupted Harry's thoughts, and he flushed with mild embarrassment. For the past week they had fallen short on food and water because they avoided towns, fearing Lord Voldemort's loyal servants—who were aptly named Death Eaters—would be waiting for them in ambush.

As they topped a small rise, all thoughts of Death Eaters and food fled from Harry's mind as he had his first sight of Lalaine's Crest.

Harry could scarcely believe that a place so large could exist; Ellis could have been thrown inside it, and Lalaine's Crest would still have room for five more villages. From their vantage point, the city sprawled out to either side, sloping down the hill, it's eastern side curved inward while its west side bulged out, forming a crescent. In the late afternoon light, Harry could see a few pinpricks of light and smoke coming from chimneys.

But what Harry was most amazed at was the walls of the city. They towered over everything, about two spans thick, made of yellow and white-flecked gray stone. He had never seen anything so _enormous_ before; Harry was sure not even a hundred werewolves could scale those walls. Like a silent gray giant it stood imposingly around the city, but to Harry it was like a beacon of hope. Inside those walls certainly, was safety. He felt a tinge of doubt at Master Dumbledore's words: how could they be in danger inside a city with walls so thick?

They began to trot up the road, following it as they came nearer the city. As they rode, Harry saw farmhouses out in the fields, and an occasional farmer tending to his herd or his crops. They were also beginning to see other people on the road: farmers on horses pulling at carts of hay, merchants with packhorses, carriages with the windows covered containing their noble passengers, and an occasional group of soldiers with light armor, the crest of the Atalantean army bright on their breasts.

The nearer they got to Lalaine's Crest, the more people Harry saw riding to and from the city, until they formed into a thick, noisy crowd slowly making their way to South Gate.

"Funny, I didn't think the roads were this full of traffic at sunset," Ron mused aloud, seeing the mass of people and animals clamoring to get inside. "I hope there isn't much trouble."

Harry assumed that because sunset was already close at hand, people would be rushing to get inside the city or out of it before the gates were closed. He tilted his head at the prince. "Isn't this normal?"

Ron shrugged. "I've never seen the Gate this packed with people before," he said. "I don't think there's a festival or anything."

Master Dumbledore had urged them to ride in a tighter group. When they were close enough he leaned in to them and said in a soft voice, "Remember my instructions. Do not speak unless I tell you to."

In a few moments the crowd of people had swallowed them up, pushing them into the center of the milling sea of people going inside. A small group of five soldiers stood their horses right beside the opening, the thick wood-and-iron gate hanging overhead. They had their lances polished to a shine, standing in uniform height beside their horses, and they were urging people inside. Some of them used the butts of their lances to urge horses, donkeys, and humans forward.

One of them—Harry assumed he was the leader, with the plume of feather attached to his helmet—was shouting out harsh orders for the people to move. Add that to the baying of horses, the cries of cattle and sheep, the voices of hundreds of people, and the noise was enough to drown everything into chaos. As their group slowly passed South Gate Harry was relieved to see the crowds disperse into the streets that stretched out left and right, people going about their business or finding rooms for the night, and soon they were left almost alone on the main road which ran straight through the city.

Once inside the city, Harry was a bit disappointed to find the houses looking almost the same as those in Ellis, only more of them were made of stone and roofed with tiles instead of thatch. But the road was different: it was paved with bright red stone, and at crossroads there was a tree in the center. Beggars were abundant near the gate, but as they rode deeper into the city there were fewer and fewer left. The houses became more elegant, too. Wood and brick were replaced with stone and sometimes marble streaked with black and deep brown; wooden foundations gave way to pillars and fluted stone columns.

"Where are we going to stay, Master Dumbledore?" Ron asked, and Harry stopped gaping at everything to listen. He saw that Neville had been too absorbed in seeing Lalaine's Crest to be sulky, and his friend turned towards Dumbledore with bright eyes.

"If you don't have anything in mind, may I suggest that we stay at Lord Jordan's place?" Ron continued. "He is a friend of my brothers', and I know he'd be glad to see us—you especially," he added the last to Master Dumbledore.

The old blacksmith waved away Ron's offer with one hand. "No, I'm afraid we won't be staying anywhere your family friends are staying. We'll be staying at an inn in this city a friend of mine owns. We will be a lot safer there."

Ron's face looked disappointed, but he did not say anything. Neville turned back to sightseeing, but Harry watched where Master Dumbledore was taking them. They took several turns, down alleys that were becoming steadily darker in the waning light. He seemed to be looking for something, and after what felt like an hour Harry was sure they were already lost.

"Lost? Oh no, we're not lost," Master Dumbledore said in response to Neville's muttering sentiment. "But I rather think the inn _has_ been lost." He continued peering at shop signs and stopping at corners, as if trying to hear something that was out of range. Harry itched to ask him what he was doing, but he had a feeling Master Dumbledore would not want to be interrupted.

"If we keep searching like this any longer I'm going to sleep while riding Shrub," Neville muttered after a while.

Harry looked at Neville. All of them were bone-tired from traveling, but Neville seemed a lot worse for wear than any of them. He took Treader closer to Neville and said, "Me too, but I think Master Dumbledore is up to something."

Neville grunted, turning his eyes away. "As long as I get to sleep in a bed tonight."

Harry was slightly hurt by Neville's bluntness, but he had expected him to act like this anyway, so he left Neville to himself and talked to the prince instead. "Do you have any idea where we're going?"

The prince shook his head. "No, but I don't think we're lost. Like Master Dumbledore said, the inn's lost, not us."

Harry felt confused. "How could an inn be lost?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Bewitched houses move all the time," Ron explained. "If you don't want to be found, you would want to move constantly, wouldn't you?"

"Er, I guess…"

The prince glanced at Harry. "I know it's difficult, but you should understand that wizards have different ways of doing things. Don't worry, when Master Dumbledore has finished your training it will be a lot easier."

"Yeah." Harry nodded, but he did not really believe Ron's words. Ever since he was a child, Harry had believed that the world stretched no further than Ellis, and that he would have no family of his own to call. But one night changed everything: now he was the son of a king, his mentor was not just a blacksmith but a wizard who was once adviser to his father, and he was going to help him and a prince of the kingdom to rescue the queen and find the wielder of the Sword of Fire. It was too much for a blacksmith's apprentice to take in, no matter what anyone said.

_But you have no choice, except to believe this is your fate._

Harry looked up. "Did you say something, Ron?"

Ron looked quizzically at him. "No."

Harry looked behind him. Neville was a good five paces away. The voice he heard was so close it seemed like it was whispering from his ear. He eased back into the saddle. Maybe it was just his imagination.

"We are here at last."

They all looked up when they heard Master Dumbledore's voice, expecting a large, homey inn with the windows warmly-lit and smells of cooking coming from the kitchen. But ten paces away from them was the high, gray, inner city walls.

Ron frowned. "Master Dumbledore?"

Neville had already caught up with them, and he stopped beside Harry, his brow furrowed. "This is a dead end," he said flatly.

They watched as Master Dumbledore got off his horse and came up to the wall. He turned and gestured towards the wall with a hand. "We are here," he said again with a smile.

"But…where?"

Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped the surface of the wall three times. Harry gasped as the wall rippled out like water; the ripples widened until they were as high as a house and as wide as the street, then they dissolved into air to reveal—

"This," Master Dumbledore indicated, "is the Traveler's Sanctuary."

o0o0o0o

The air felt hot and stuffy to Hermione, who had her ear pressed against the crack between the stone floor and the thick wooden door of their prison. She listened hard to the sound of clanking footsteps outside.

"Are they gone, yet?" Ginny asked in a soft whisper; she was kneeling beside her, gripping a yellowing piece of parchment in one hand.

Hermione waited for a few moments to make sure. "No. They're wondering why their rations haven't been given yet, though." She sat up and picked at the bits of hay that clung to her hair and face. "Your Ma—I mean, Ginny, are you sure someone is coming tonight?"

Ginny frowned at something Hermione could not see, but she nodded. "Yes."

Hermione studied her face. "Are you absolutely sure?"

Ginny turned her eyes to Hermione, and for a moment the handmaiden saw the Queen again, her blue eyes ablaze. A high, formidable mountain. But the moment passed, and Hermione saw Ginny lower her eyes and look away. "I am sure," she said in a firm tone.

Hermione nodded, not wishing to pursue the subject further. Two nights ago they received another note enclosed inside their bread. It was written by Ginny's mother, just like the previous messages, saying that someone will come to their aid on the night of the new moon. That was tonight. Any hope of salvation with a fair trial was crushed when, on the eve of their trial, King Draco issued the order to execute them by the gallows twenty days hence.

To Hermione, it seemed odd to wait for twenty days, but nonetheless it meant they had run out of time. She and the queen had come up with various plans of escape, each one discarded as problems arose. The note's arrival had relieved them of the problem, though, even if they were still unsure if help _would_ come.

A shuffling noise and a loud yelp followed by silence startled the both of them into standing up. They looked at the door with wide eyes, fear and anticipation weighing heavily in their stomachs. Hermione stepped back and pulled Ginny with her until they were on the pallet on the far side of the prison cell.

More shuffling noises, this time accompanied by muted whispering. "Stand back, Your Majesty," came a woman's voice from the other side of the door, then, "_Alohomora!_"

The door swung silently open. In the doorway stood a young woman with short brown hair and dark eyes, wielding a wand that had its tip alight. She stepped inside and grinned at them.

"Hello, Your Majesty," she said, doing a curtsy with her long, patched-up brown cloak that hid her entire body. "I'm Tonks, and this here is Mundungus Fletcher."

Both Hermione and Ginny looked behind her, where a man was peering back out into the hallway. He wore shabby clothes and no cloak. When he turned to face them, he had drooping eyes and a dirty, unkempt stubby beard over a grin that showed yellowing teeth. He gave them both a quick nod of the head. "Oi Tonks…which one of 'ems the queen?"

The woman who called herself Tonks rolled her eyes. "Use that head of yours, Dung. The queen's Ginevra Weasley, isn't it? That's her, right there." She pointed at Ginny.

Ginny stared indignantly at the finger rudely pointing at her, but did not say anything. Mundungus tilted his head and picked a spot on his beard. "Weasley, eh? She'd be the lass with red 'air, then. Well, come along yer Majesty and uh…yer lady over there. Coast's clear, but it won't be fer much longer." He shuffled out into the dark hallway.

Tonks approached the two women. "Here. We found your wands for you," she said in a quick manner. "I think it's best if you get them out, in case something comes up. I'll lead. Dung will cover our backs. Come on, we've got no time to waste."

Hermione did as she was told. She scrambled up and grabbed her wand tightly in one hand. She turned towards the queen.

Ginny took her own wand and stared at it for a moment. Taking it in one hand she asked, "Do you have word of my family?"

Tonks tutted impatiently. "I'm sorry to say this Your Majesty, but if we don't move soon, I don't think it's going to matter if you hear about your family or not."

"You're right. Well, lead on then. Hermione and I shall follow."

Tonks nodded. She held her wand aloft. "_Nox_," she said softly, and the light on its tip faded until Hermione could only faintly see figures. Mundungus's voice floated from outside. "We're clear."

Hermione felt a hand grab hers. "Hold onto the queen's hand," instructed Tonks. Hermione did as she was told. "We have to be as quiet as possible. Dung and I've knocked out the guards on the way here, but we can't be sure if someone might find them anytime now. At least they haven't sounded the alarm yet, so we're still safe."

Hermione nodded, even though she knew Tonks couldn't see. She felt for Ginny's hand in the darkness. Her hand was cold and trembling slightly. She grabbed it tightly in hers. "We'll be alright, Ginny," she said in what she hoped was an assuring voice.

She felt the queen grab her hand more tightly in response. Tonks pulled at her, and Hermione followed, the queen in tow. Tonks led them down the hallway, which was considerably brighter than the cell; torches were lit in even intervals. Hermione looked back to see Mundungus five paces from them, checking if someone was following.

"Stop," Tonks whispered softly. Hermione and Ginny stopped. They were at a corner, the path dividing left and right. Tonks had her back against the stone wall, and she craned her neck out to see if the coast was clear.

Footsteps echoed against the floor, and Tonks hastily drew back. "Step back," she ordered in a hiss. "We've got company."

Hermione's knees were shaking, but she nodded and gritted her teeth. She pulled back, the queen right behind her. They watched as Tonks remained where she was, her wand at the ready, waiting. Soon three armored soldiers came into view, their swords still in their scabbards, laughing about something. One of them glanced at their direction and saw Hermione and Ginny huddled together.

"You there! What are—" he was abruptly cut off when Tonks stepped up and cast three Stunning Charms at them, one after the other, the red flashes of light whooshing through the air and directly to their chests. The soldiers were thrown back against the wall, creating noise that would alert every soldier within hearing range.

As the unconscious soldiers slipped down on the ground Tonks turned to them. "Follow me!" She sprinted down the left path. Hermione and Ginny scrambled to keep up with her, Mundungus still behind.

Hermione half-expected soldiers to jump out at them from every corner, but no one stopped them as they ran down the narrow corridors. She took a glance out one window; there were guards patrolling the grounds outside, and sentries were posted along the battlements that surrounded the dungeons. Her face paled. How are they going to slip past those?

As if reading her thoughts, Tonks said, "There are too many soldiers outside to risk dashing across the open. We have to go by the back door."

"Back door?"

"The kitchens," Tonks replied. "Don't worry, I've been working there as a cook's help, so I know my way around." She led them to stairs leading down, and then through more corridors. Finally they arrived in a corridor slightly wider than the others they had been through, with a large, heavy, wooden door to one side. Tonks pushed this open and led the way inside.

The kitchen was a large room. Several cooks were about stirring pots and kneading dough; some were shouting orders for the servants who scurried to do their bidding, carrying baskets of vegetables or trays of empty wooden bowls. Hermione could not help note that the kitchen was also rather dirty; the floor looked as if it had not been swept in months, and the only table in the kitchen—a very large, long table made of ash—was piled high with unwashed plates, bowls, and cooking ingredients. It was also very hot inside.

No one stopped them as Tonks led them straight through the kitchen and into the side door that led outside. Everyone was too busy preparing meals and doing everything else that they did not notice them. When they got outside, Hermione breathed in the smell of the cool night air, her spirits lifting. They were _free_.

"That wasn' so bad, was it?" Mundungus said almost to himself. He drew out a small bottle from his pocket and took a deep swig. Hermione's nose wrinkled when she smelled Firewhiskey.

Hermione immediately went to Ginny's side. "Are you alright?"

The queen nodded, looking up at her. She smiled. "Yes. I'm perfectly alright." She turned to Tonks. "Thank you for rescuing us."

Before Tonks could reply, the sound of a horn pierced the night. Their escape had been found.

Tonks looked grim. "You can thank us later when we've got you out of here." She took out a small bag from her waist and opened it. Hermione saw a single brown feather inside.

"On the count of three, everyone touches the feather," Tonks said, looking at everyone. Hermione understood quickly that the feather was a Portkey.

The queen looked up. "Where are we going?"

Tonks gave her a reassuring smile. "To safety." #


	9. Announcement

**Sword of Fire, Crown of Truth**

- Announcement Chapter -

**Fred Weasley:** Oi! George! Get a load of this; we're getting some screen time at last!

**George Weasley:** By golly you're right, Fred. (grins) Should I get the confetti?

**Fred:** Have you gone bonkers, my brother? We're _princes_. We can just snap our fingers and a flock of servants would spray the confetti for us.

**George:** Oh yeah. I'll get them—

**Fred:** Hang on a minute, George. We're not here to celebrate our screen time. We've got work to do.

**George:** Work? Oh…right. You mean the announcement we have to make? (shrugs) You do it, Fred, I've got to go tell our loyal thieves where they're suppose to—

**Fred:** Ssssh! Stop ruining the plot, you dolt! They don't know anything about that yet!

**George:** Who?

**Fred:** (rolls eyes) I can't believe I'm your twin…THEM! (points to reader)

**George:** Oh. Right. Bugger.

**Fred:** (sighs) Anyway, about that announcement…see, the author of this story—

**George:** Who happens to be the lady Moiraine Lendreth—

**Fred:** Won't be around until the 25th of May because she has to take this exam—

**George:** A nasty piece of mental torture, if you ask me—

**Fred:** I agree. Anyway, she needs to take this to get her professional license.

**George:** So that means no updates for SFCT until then. Sorry.

**Fred:** Anyway, as a special treat and err…apology…she wants us to clear a few facts for you. George?

**George:** Right. Hang on a minute.

**Draco Malfoy:** UNHAND ME, YOU RED-HEADED OAF! I'M YOUR KING! UNHAND ME AT ONCE!!! (wriggles futilely against the ropes that bound him from neck to ankles)

**George:** Oh shut up, you prat. Jus be lucky I don't have a sword with me to skewer you like a pig. I haven't forgotten you got Ginny and my Dad arrested. (looks at Fred) The fake king is here, Fred.

**Fred: **(pointedly ignores Draco's indignant squawks) Excellent, George. Oi! Ginny! GINNY!

**Ginny Weasley-Malfoy:** (walks in) What? (sees Draco) YOU! (rounds on her brothers) What's the meaning of this?

**Draco: **Hah! I should be the one to say that! Wait—why aren't you in prison?

**Ginny:** (rolls her eyes) I escaped. Duh.

**Draco:** WHAT?

**Ginny:** (ignores him) Anyway, what am I doing here? I'm supposed to be with Hermione and Tonks and…the smelly…uncouth…man. (scrunches her nose)

**Fred:** Well, my sister, a few readers have question the inappropriateness of you being married to this git—

**Draco:** I'm not a git!

**Fred:** --this git, when you were only 13.

**Ginny:** Hmm? We were married, he became king, I became queen…what's wrong with that, aside form the fact that he's absolutely horrid? Chinese and Japanese emperors get crowned when they're even younger than I am.

**George:** (clears throat) I don't think they're questioning about your coronation. It's about your marriage.

**Ginny:** What about my marriage?

**Fred:** You know—bugger, this is more difficult than I thought.

**Draco:** (snorts) Oh please. The bloody readers want to know if something went on between us when we got married.

**Ginny:** What?

**Draco: **Are you really this daft? They want to know if we've slept together.

**Ginny:** (blushes furiously) Of course not! I wouldn't dream of sleeping with a snake like _you_! If you have conveniently forgotten, I hated you from the first time we've met! Argh! (stomps off)

**Fred:** Er…right. Well folks, that's it. The marriage was purely a business deal, no more no less. And Moiraine wants me to pass on the message that she's very, extremely sorry she won't be able to update because of her exam. Cheers!


End file.
